


Take Flight While Angels Sing

by Arinia



Series: In Death's Embrace, We are Reborn [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Divergent, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Historical References, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Explicit Sex, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Sensuality, Temporary Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2020-09-24 21:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20365297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arinia/pseuds/Arinia
Summary: Aziraphaletrustedhim. The realization nearly knocked Crowley off his feet. The trembling angel cradled in his arms, face buried into his shoulder, had never allowed such raw vulnerability to show before. This was deeper than the Arrangement, deeper even than their sometimes fragile friendship.And this might be his only chance.In 1941 Crowley makes a sacred vow to protect Aziraphale from all harm, to never again let him succumb to Death. Aziraphale, in a moment of weakness and infatuation, accepts. One fateful decision reverberates throughout time and alters the course of their lives, forever. Sequel to "Dance with Darkness".





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! The sequel to "Dance with Darkness" that nobody asked for, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless. I've had a couple comments and private messages speculating about what would happen after such a pivotal moment, specifically what would happen with Crowley. And, well, my muse took off and created its own little universe, because I realized it would change _everything_. (And I did promise some Crowley angst). Canon will be woven in when it's right, otherwise, we're in our own territory now from 1941-2019. This being a direct sequel, I recommend reading "Dance with Darkness" first, otherwise this might not make much sense.
> 
> Content Warning: Temporary character death, violent imagery, implied (but not shown) torture, and depictions of war. No smut but a hard M for sexual situations and a healthy dollop of sensuality. Any potential triggers will be clearly spelled out before each chapter.

_Britain, 1941_

_It wasn’t supposed to be this way._

_Though truthfully, Crowley hadn’t known what to expect when he walked into that church, Aziraphale’s terror reverberating in his ears like a shrill alarm. 79 years since their falling out; Crowley withdrawing into a fitful, melancholic sleep. He hadn’t been able to escape the angel even in slumber, dreams of harsh words and a retreating figure plaguing him at every turn. He had awoken under a pile of hair and dust, still seething with betrayal. Buying his Bentley and holding to it tight, driving ever faster to drown out the deadly whispers that tempted him to London Soho for just one glimpse._

_He had swallowed the way his traitorous human heart leapt into his throat at seeing the cherubic face staring back at him after 79 long years. Send a few deserving humans Below, save Aziraphale, easy enough. He had done it plenty of times before. Aziraphale would bestow on him a nervous thank you, and he would ground out his rejection; a rusty record, shuddering to life. Perhaps in a decade or two their song would play, warped from what it once had been, but still there. Still there._

_Somewhere along the way, everything went pear-shaped._

_Aziraphale was _different._ The way his eyes darted around the church, frozen agony etched on his face at a gun being jammed against his skull. Incapable of acting, of moving; staring at Crowley as if he wasn’t really there, and fuck, this was beginning to disturb him. This wasn’t the same Aziraphale who would tut in annoyance whenever a human got over-zealous, where Crowley would sweep in and “rescue” him, a smirk masking thousands of years of unspoken desires._

_This was an Aziraphale who allowed him to close a gentle hand around his wrist, and will his racing heart to slow. Who followed him into his car, staring at him wide-eyed as the searchlights threw everything into sharp relief, driving in silence through rubble-lined streets. Who gazed at him with a dark hunger, leaning closer and closer, inhaling the smoke from his cigarette like a lifeline, and making thoughts Crowley had kept fastidiously hidden away bubble forth._

_An Aziraphale pressed against his chest, crumbling, and Crowley could scarcely hold the pieces together. All because of him. His stupidity. His selfishness. His damned, fucking pride and now the rotten seeds he had sown bloomed their ugly flower. Aziraphale’s tears soaking through to his skin, clinging to him. Accusations ripped deep with every shuddering breath and broken sob. He had done this._

He had done this.

_And he had no idea how to even begin fixing it._

_He held him. It didn’t feel like enough. Wings sprung forth then, without a second thought, cocooning Aziraphale as best they could, and Aziraphale had flinched, nearly pulling away, before he caught sight of the sleek feathers and sank deeper into his embrace. His hand came up, tentative, cupping his neck, pulling him closer, and Aziraphale nearly melted at the contact._

_Fuck._

_Crowley could hardly breathe, mind torn between crushing guilt and a sense of twisted wonderment that Aziraphale was here. In his arms. His most ridiculous, heart-stricken fantasies coming to pass. After eight decades of severed ties, of Aziraphale _dying_ because he was lost in dreams, and Aziraphale still hung on, as if letting go might cause him to die a second time._

_How could this be? How the fuck did Crowley remotely deserve to even touch him?_

_Aziraphale _trusted_ him._

_It came to him suddenly; cresting over his mind and stopping everything in its tracks. This was an angel, and he was a demon, and a demon who was the sole reason for the steady stream of tears marking his flesh, at that. And still, Aziraphale trusted him._

_The realization nearly knocked Crowley off his feet. The trembling angel cradled in his arms, face buried in his shoulder, had never allowed such raw vulnerability to show before. Not with all the horrors time had inflicted on them. The Flood. The Black Death. The Spanish Inquisition. Humans killing each other over and over, a relentless, churning slaughterhouse that did not deal in mercies._

_Crowley had always trusted Aziraphale. Foolish for any demon, but he was drawn to him. Watching the first humans, marked with sin, stumbling in the desert, and only being able to think of the angel beside him who shielded him from the first storm. He had never dared to allow himself to hope the trust was reciprocated. Aziraphale constantly prattled on about sides, and Heaven, and the goddamn Ineffable Plan. He knew where they stood._

_He thought he knew where they stood..._

_This was deeper than the Arrangement. Deeper even than their sometimes fragile friendship. He looked down at the white blond curls tucked against his chest, a hesitant hand cradling his neck, and suddenly felt his throat go very dry._

_A trust like this. It wasn’t something that should even happen between them. Millennia of Aziraphale keeping him at an arm’s length, making Crowley earn every last inch closer to him. And now, Aziraphale freely gave it away, holding out his heart to him, cracked, and battered, and silently pleading for Crowley to keep it safe._

_A demon worth his salt would pounce at such a rare opportunity. To drive the sword in one final time; to claim, to kill, it wouldn’t matter. An image of Hastur floated through his mind, Crowley’s lips curled in a sneer at the mere thought. Hastur, not particularly intelligent, but brutal enough to make up for it. He would make Aziraphale suffer, laughing the entire time._

_But, no. Aziraphale would never let a foul thing like Hastur close to him. Hastur did not play the long game. A rat, constantly hitting the pleasure button, invested in Wrath and not much else._

_Hastur’s face was replaced with Ligur. Soft, deadly Ligur. A clever demon, quiet and calculating. Who slunk among the humans with careful whispers and deft hands. There was no obvious rot upon that handsome face. Only enticing eyes, and a voice that caressed. Ligur would spin his web, trapping Aziraphale, and use that precious trust to strike. He imagined Ligur holding Aziraphale, stroking his hair, nails growing longer and sharper, until it was too late-_

_Hell could have sent any demon up on Earth. It could be Ligur here instead of him, and Ligur would not have crossed the lines Crowley had crossed, would never have turned his back on Hell because of the forbidden feeling that stained Crowley’s soul._

_And Hell still _could_ send something like Ligur up here. If they ever grew tired of him. If they ever thought he was shirking his duties and going rogue._

_Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s heart pound against his chest, a steady tat-tat-tat that said far more than words ever could. It was his hand that downy curls tickled. His wings that shielded Aziraphale from the entire, wretched lot of them. Thousands of years of careful steps, of Crowley agonizing over every missed moment to tell Aziraphale the truth, and it could all be over tomorrow if the powers in Hell changed their minds._

_This might be his only chance._

“_It won’t happen again.” Force was behind the words, and the air shimmered with the weight of what he had just done. A sacred vow, dangling between them, pulled from neither Heaven or Hell, but the very essence of Crowley’s blackened soul. He held his breath, eyes trained for the slightest movement, wondering if he hadn’t colossally fucked everything up once more._

_Aziraphale didn’t pause. Didn’t recoil. He simply held on tighter, every inch of Crowley claimed. A shudder rolled through them both; he shouldn’t be trembling, it was not he who had died, and yet Crowley was having trouble staying upright._

_He hesitated, the briefest of seconds, a gesture like this would be impossible to come back from. Lowering his head as if in prayer, and sealing it with a soft kiss to Aziraphale’s head. Something wound between them, around them, tangling them together, quicker than a blink, faster than lightning._

_And Aziraphale didn’t pull away._

_USSR, 1941_

The world was quiet, save for the crunch of snow underneath his boots.

Demons hated winter. Cold, unrelenting. The starkest difference imaginable to the stuffy furnace that could scarcely contain untold millions of souls. They performed their temptations and scurried back Below, rotten teeth clattering in their jaws and shoving each other aside to get closer to Hellfire.

Not Crowley.

Crisp, frigid air stabbed at his lungs and chased away the smoke and sulphur that always lingered, a forceful cleansing that Crowley drank in greedily. He admired the stillness, the quiet, the effortless beauty of freshly fallen snow. This wasn’t the stark white of Heaven, sterile and lifeless.

Soft. Like white blond curls sliding through his fingers, a steady rhythm, invited to touch.

It had been well over a century since he had last been here, a different name, a different time. It was hard to keep track of humans these days; their constantly shifting allegiances and ideas. He had nearly slipped up and earned a one-way ticket back to Hell. Best to keep his mouth shut, then. Focus, focus. He was not here for humans, anyway.

The stench of iron was pungent, and Crowley’s steps grew faster, until the tiny dots between the trees became human shaped. Fury and fear crashed together and Crowley sucked it up, drew strength from these humans who had damned themselves without him even lifting a finger.

“What’s all this then?” he sauntered towards the captain, whose icy eyes flicked over Crowley, sensing he didn’t belong, but not quite sure _why_. Mud spattered across the sea of white, haphazard, a jagged hole scarring the Earth. There was terror here, filling Crowley’s veins with its splendid poison.

“Collaborators.” There were six in total, lined up neatly like wooden ducks at a carnival. An elderly woman with a shock of grey hair shivered at the end, threadbare blue dress whipping around skinny calves in the chilled evening air. 

“Naturally, naturally,” Crowley agreed. A pile of clothes sat near the soldiers, each claimed and ripped apart for treasure. A beige coat lay at the feet of the youngest. Crowley’s body went rigid, wiry, ready to lunge. “Making them dig their own grave in the winter, very commendable.”

The captain grunted, gesturing to his men and causing a scramble for guns and courage. A deep breath, then another, forked tongue slipping between pearly teeth and close to the captain’s ear.

“You’ve found someone I’ve been searching for a long, _long _time.” A glance at the man in the middle, stripped down to his undergarments, strong arms lashed behind his back. “You’ll let me take care of him personally, then.”

So soft, so slippery; that strange, musical lilt that floated in ears and sent everything into delicious chaos. The captain’s brows furrowed, glancing at Crowley and back again, a steely resolve that refused to crack.

“You can watch.” Crowley hissed, low, a warning, pulling all the sin towards himself and filling his chest.

“_He is mine.”_

Temptations were meant to be just that: temptations. Compulsions took the fun away. Not free will, not true damnation. But, the man in the middle was shaking, Crowley could feel his heart searching for sturdy ground, and his patience had worn thin. The captain’s eyes glazed over, mouth slack, and he nodded, holding up a hand to pause the execution.

A dirty rag was wrapped around his eyes, old blood crusted into the worn cloth, and Crowley’s hatred nearly consumed him. A gentle hand on that forearm, too cold, much too cold, and he could see Aziraphale’s mouth open, before he squeezed a warning. He steered him away, into the quiet woods with unblemished snow and bare black branches. Aziraphale tripped, still shaking, and Crowley steadied him, something tightening in his chest at seeing the dirt caked into his hair.

“C-Crowley?” he dared to ask, voice trembling and Crowley had to convince himself it was just from the cold. A snap, and the rope and blindfold were gone, and Aziraphale hugged himself, eyes wide as he gazed at Crowley.

“You came...”

A sense of wonderment. Disbelief. Hope.

Aziraphale had worn the same look six short months ago, as Crowley left him in the back of a warm and cozy bookshop, hands clutching a black feather to his chest. The air was heavy then too, fraught with dissolving boundaries and half-formed realizations.

Crowley desperately wished for a cigarette. Hands a jangled mess, and he shoved them deep into his jacket. “Was only here checking up on things, s’all.” Aziraphale’s lips were blue, matching his eyes, and with a start Crowley realized he wasn’t wearing shoes.

Rage flooded through him, sucked through a sharp breath, the cold a sudden, unwelcome enemy. Demonic instincts urged him back, to maim, to seek what he rightfully should. Aziraphale folded in on himself, seeking a last shred of warmth, and Crowley pushed the darkness to the back of his mind.

Soon. Soon. There were more important things to worry about.

“In the middle of the woods?” Even like this, where Crowley could still taste his fear on his tongue, Aziraphale couldn’t help himself, eyebrow raised, picking apart Crowley’s half-truths. A tale as old as time. It might have pulled a smile from him in London, with a glass full of vintage wine and a comfy chair at his back. Instead, he snapped his fingers, a dark coat materializing in his hands and he gestured for Aziraphale to come closer.

“Didn’t stop you from getting shot so you could choke from hypothermia. Come on, angel, don’t have all day.”

But, Aziraphale didn’t move, still staring at him, there in a state of undress that Crowley was definitely sure he had never seen. The fine white hair covered his arms and legs, nearly invisible, so light, so radiant. He was going to make Crowley reach out, just like always, even teetering on the edge of being beyond saving.

And Crowley stepped forward, like always. Guided the arms into the sleeves, willing it warm, like dying embers of a flame. Aziraphale’s sound of relief hung in the air, breath ghosting upwards, reminding Crowley of the cigarette all those months ago that had drawn Aziraphale closer and closer.

He could have miracled the jacket on. Could have spun an entire outfit with the barest flick of his wrist. Yet here he was, buttoning him up, slow and deliberate, desperate to control his breathing, the winter air hid nothing. Aziraphale’s gaze was heavy, and he was still, so very still. Gloves were next, tugged onto those perfectly manicured hands that had seen better days. Crowley cursed his own gloves, the sliver of fabric standing in his way.

His feet were turning a waxy grey, a sure sign of frostbite, and Crowley imagined those rifles turned against the captain, the sin of rebellion, well, that’s how he would spin it, anyway. A scream, 4 shots, and silence once more. Fur lined boots, tucked under wool trousers black as night, and Crowley watched as the wool suddenly turned a pale brown.

“_Really?_” His throat was nearly closed tight. A huff was the reply, something about not letting Crowley choose everything, and Crowley shut his eyes, forcing himself to finish this, forcing himself not to give into the seductive voice that had taken over every thought and dream.

And he acquiesced. The hat was beige and blue checkers, tucked over those soft, soft curls, that tempted him to glide his hands over flushed cheeks. He expected Aziraphale to flinch at the least, pull away like always, eyes skittering about for who might be watching. Aziraphale swallowed, pursed his quivering lips, but stayed put, never blinking, staring at Crowley as though trying to convey some important message.

_Don’t go._

Those words had haunted Crowley. Mocking him. Turning the possibilities over and over in his mind about what would have happened had he given in. Selfish, as always. Not enough that he had held Aziraphale (for hours, more than he had ever dared to imagine). No, no, he needed more. A taste, and the hunger roared to life, and now here he was, ankle deep in fresh snow, Aziraphale donned in black and checkered cloth and looking up at him the way he had looked at him all those months ago.

Crowley’s hands were still on his cheeks. He had not touched those cheeks _then_; they had been tucked away safe in the crook of his neck. They burned through his gloves, euphoria, plump and ripe like a fresh picked apple.

Six months was nothing for them. Not compared to the eight decades preceding this fleeting moment, deep in war-torn Europe. He had not slept at all in that time, wasn’t sure he had even allowed his eyes to close longer than necessary. Aziraphale had vanished mere hours after he left; panic stricken, he had cast about the globe for that ethereal light, not breathing until he felt him in Berlin, heart still beating.

Bastards. All of them. He should have stayed.

“Are they dead?” He could feel the vibrations, fingers sliding down further to the dip of his throat, and Aziraphale swallowed once more, thick and unsure. Too much, too much, Crowley just had to push it, and he stepped back. How cruel God was, how much She must hate him, to allow him the time to memorize the curve of that round body against his own, and dangle it, untouchable, in front of him for the rest of eternity.

“One of them is. He’s in for a pleasant surprise. Should I even _ask_ how the heaven you ended up like this?” His hands were twitching, mad that they were so far away. Did Aziraphale think of that moment, too? Did he slow down the seconds, every beat, every breath, and memorize the way the particles of dust had danced around them?

Aziraphale flushed, setting his chin and tugging at the inky gloves (he tried not to notice how good he looked in black, dashing and alluring, and fuck, this wasn’t the time for this). “I don’t need berating from you, too. Gabriel will already chastise me enough for failing my assignment.”

Unusual testiness, and Crowley immediately regretted it, another step back, trying to squash memories of another time where pointed words had been unthinkingly hurled. Gabriel, bloody Gabriel. Crowley had never liked the self-righteous prick, even before he Fell. Aziraphale worried his lip between his teeth, before inhaling sharply, attempting a smile.

“I’d like to see if my clothes are still there. I had a pocket-watch with me gifted from Arthur Conan Doyle, and I certainly don’t need it falling into the wrong hands.”

He shouldn’t escort him. Shouldn’t bring him anywhere near that foul place, so he could see the humans Crowley had so callously thrown away to save him. He walked beside him anyway, fists clenched, nearly splitting the leather. He hadn’t been sure how their first meeting would go; wars did not make for good debriefs. Tension rife, hands seeking to wander, it was all too much.

The clothes were there, blood spattered against them. The air suffocating; thick with murder and anguish, a demon’s bread and butter. Aziraphale examined them, sighing softly, making Crowley’s heart clench at the devotion those bolts of cloth were looked at with.

“Thank you-”

“Don’t.” It was hard to look at Aziraphale. Too many things to say. To ask. Had things changed? Were they pretending like nothing had occurred? “Just don’t make a habit of it. Can’t be everywhere at once. Got my own shit assigned to me, too.” A lie. He rarely lied to Aziraphale. It burned through his chest and into his stomach. Aziraphale deflated at that.

“Of course. It won’t happen again.”

_Italy, 1943_

Chaos.

Bullets flying. People screaming. Explosions raining dust and debris around him. Crowley was at the zenith of his power; death and destruction infusing into him like a drug. Head spinning, on top of the world, no one could touch him.

He was not here to soak in human sin. This dizzying power served one purpose, hurtling through the unsteady building, riddled with bullet holes and forgotten treasures. He heard his own name, torn from a hoarse throat, filled with terror, with desperation.

He screamed his reply, the holy name bouncing off the empty walls. _Aziraphale, Aziraphale, Aziraphale. _Something fell with a thud above him, and he was kicking a door in moments later, hardly aware of how he had gotten there, wrath white hot, searing his blood, nearly blinding him.

They were no match. Three necks snapped simultaneously with the violent flick of his wrist, dropping in succession and staring at him with empty eyes. He cursed them, stained their damned souls, ensuring they would suffer in the deepest pits of Hell.

“O-oh... it hurts...” There was blood _everywhere_. Aziraphale was holding his stomach, face ashen already, trembling, and Crowley was kneeling in front of him, nearly shaking him.

“Why didn’t you stop them?!” He picked up one of the daggers and threw it against the wall, snarling and spitting, and there was so much blood it made him want to gag. “Fuck, Aziraphale! Who gives a-”

“I can’t.” Crowley held his face, forced their eyes to meet. His nails were leaving marks, he should relent, be gentle, like always, but he was losing control, this was too close.

“Why the _fuck_ not?!”

“I’m not allowed.” Quiet. Apologetic. This was no game, this was not Paris all those centuries ago, flirtation taken a little too far. “Miracles...” A grunt of pain, eyes screwed up tight. “Miracles can’t be used to prevent... my death. Did it once during the War... and I was informed it was disobedience. Sin of pride, I suppose.”

Crowley nearly leapt out of his earthly vessel. A rage, a towering inferno unlike anything he had ever felt, swept over him. They dared, _they dared_?! To send Aziraphale into a war, where humans had perfected killing in a way Hell had never anticipated, and take away his only defence? Even his side allowed him self-preservation, if only to spare themselves the paperwork.

Had it not been for the red staining his fingers he would have. Torn into Heaven, a one man army, filled with vengeance, and finished what Hell had started.

He made short work of Aziraphale’s many layers, propping Aziraphale against the cold brick wall, forcing himself to breathe, inhale, exhale, it wasn’t too late. Four stab wounds in all, clumsy, jagged. Aziraphale had fought back, at least. Bought himself a few precious minutes of life.

“You...” Aziraphale breathed suddenly, but he wasn’t looking at him. A chill seeped into the room, and Crowley froze. He knew that sensation anywhere, the only other being on Earth as ancient as them. He felt the souls of the damned be collected, crying out for mercy. He would visit them next time in Hell. He would make them pay.

But, Death did not leave. It was waiting. Empty eyes boring into them, patience, endless amounts of it. Fear grabbed hold of Crowley, strangled him, a voice that sounded like the Lord of Hell taunting him he was too late.

“We won’t be needing your services today,” he spat through gritted teeth. He put his hand on one of the wounds, willed the skin to sew up tight, no scarring, perfect, just like Aziraphale. He would let the monstrosity the humans had unleashed on the world fill him up, would use this power to save the only pure thing left in the universe.

The wound was dealt with, hands and eyes skated upwards, and as Crowley set to the next one by Aziraphale’s liver he stopped.

A feather rested on Aziraphale’s chest, right over his heart. Inky black, sleek, and sharp. To a human eye, it looked like a tattoo, but Crowley could see the threads of rust red, the glimmer of diamonds dotted along the edges. Trembling, blood stained fingers ghosted across, felt the softness catch under his nails. Miracled into place, warm, sunk into his very skin.

Aziraphale’s breathing was erratic. Their eyes met, even behind the sunglasses, Crowley knew his gaze burned. There was no apology or shame in the pale face. A hint of defiance, a plea for understanding, something else, something no demon should ever have cast their way.

_Oh._

His mind was in a frenzy. Horror and panic crashed together with hope, desperate and filled with longing. He could not linger on what this meant, and he again wondered what God was doing with him, why She constantly saw fit to toy with what was left of his heart when he was doing everything in his power to keep one of Her own alive. He tore his eyes away, forced himself to keep Aziraphale tethered to this Earth.

Death still lingered, just out of the corner of his eye, scythe an unnatural gleam in the darkened room. Another wound stitched up, another one followed. He could do this. He wasn’t too late.

Something brushed against his temple, running through the short hairs by his ear. Crowley swallowed, knees protesting from kneeling on the hard floor. Everything was tilted, the room was swimming, murky and out of focus. Aziraphale’s hands continued their journey, winding through the red tresses, pulling with surprising strength.

“Beautiful.” Filled with reverence. Awe. He sounded almost drunk, slipping away from Crowley as his blood ran through his fingers. Crowley could not bring himself to look up, throat constricted, everything aching. A part of him said he ought to slap that hand away. A part of him yearned to tilt his head and ease the exploration.

He did neither.

The last one was healed, hands smoothing over the swell of stomach, wiping the blood clean. Aziraphale’s hand had dropped to Crowley’s shoulder, expelling a sigh that still sounded much too dazed. Death was still there, closer now, the chill seeping into Crowley’s bones. He cursed, swore, threw another dagger aside. “I healed him! Fuck off!”

His trousers were soaked; looking down and feeling the blood against his legs, against his arms, it was sticky, it was everywhere. Aziraphale’s head lolled to the side, eyes glazed over, breaths rattling with every rise of his chest. Crowley was desperate, considered stretching his wings and shielding Aziraphale from Death’s unrelenting gaze. Why wasn’t he getting better?

“Too much... blood loss,” Aziraphale supplied, voice high and reedy. “Let me see you, Crowley... dear.”

Crowley obliged, helpless, as always, to the pull of that siren song. His mind was too strung out, feverish with all that had happened. Blood loss. Of course. He needed to focus, fixate on the ripples of his original temptation, spin evil into good, only for one.

A deep breath, exhaled slowly. Aziraphale’s hand remained on his shoulder, supple fingers tracing the sensitive skin of his neck. Crowley could almost trick himself; Aziraphale was close to- close to _leaving._ Nothing more. Hardly aware he was doing it.

Right?

There was steel forged in those eyes, despite the haze, the slightly goofy smile, as if this was funny, meeting Death again and his blood staining Crowley’s clothes. Something welled up in Crowley, daring, reckless, thousands of years of charging ahead alone, Hell and Heaven be damned.

He propelled himself forward, and placed his tainted lips on that holy brow. Fierce and forceful, willing all that damned blood back where it belonged. This was not the kiss of so many years ago, gentle and reassuring. This was needy, hungry. Aziraphale gasped, as he had back then, something else laced there, that made forbidden feathers lay across an angel’s heart. He held that kiss, held it with all his might, until his trousers were dry, stiff and uncomfortable.

When he pulled away, Death was gone.

Crowley was shaking as he stood, lips tingling. He wanted to lick them, tattoo it on his tongue. Aziraphale was equally slow to stand, hands running down his torso, pristine as if nothing had occurred at all. The second time Crowley was seeing him undressed. It felt lewd, and he turned his eyes away, giving one of the dead men a swift kick.

“I cannot apologize to you enough.” Crowley clenched his jaw. Apologies and thank-yous. He had had his fill from Aziraphale. “I told you this wouldn’t happen again.” There was so much self-doubt in those words, and Crowley turned, despite his better intentions. “I underestimated them.”

“What were you doing that was so-so _goddamn_ important?” He didn’t mean to sound so angry. The blood was gone but the stench of iron remained. He needed a drink. He needed several. It was too close.

“Well... ah... they were stealing. Artifacts.” He gestured to a sack Crowley hadn’t registered before. Books and jewels and goblets spilled out on the floor. “I couldn’t let them! Profiteering off a war like this, I had to stop them!”

Crowley had never hit Aziraphale. Never. In 5000 years he hadn’t dared lay a violent hand on him. Hearing this now, hearing how Aziraphale had nearly given up his life for _artifacts_ made Crowley consider it.

He forced such thoughts away. Too steeped in hatred, the atmosphere thick with it. He ran a hand down his face, it was wet, he hoped it was from sweat. Aziraphale was wringing his hands, trembling like he had in the church, like he had in the woods, curls in disarray, and that feather was all Crowley could see.

“Just... get dressed. We’re leaving.” He smoothed his voice of the rough edges, an impossible task, all for one bloody Principality. “There’s a town not far, no blasted war there yet.”

A snap, and Aziraphale was clothed once more. Crowley fastidiously fixed his tie, picking imaginary lint that dared to fall. Aziraphale gathered up his treasures, slung over his shoulder, edged to his side. His usual attire, the feather out of sight except-

The coat was brown. A dark, rich brown, the colour of chocolates and old oak trees. Crowley had never seen Aziraphale wear something other than light, effervescent colours. In 5000 long, _long_ years. Whites and beiges and pale creams. He was looking at him again, a shy smile twitching, and he dared to press his arm against Crowley’s.

“You’ll come with me?” Crowley was finding it difficult to breathe. The air was dusty. Aziraphale’s bashful smile piercing the darkness, a fatal stab.

He placed his hand against Aziraphale’s chest, made sure his heart still marched, traced a feather like shape over the vest.

“I’ll come with you, angel.”

_Germany, 1945_

Millions were dead, and the war churned on.

The bombs were relentless. His ears hadn’t stopped ringing, even when the world was silent, stretched out and sickly. This wasn’t the longest war Crowley had endured, not even close. But, it _felt_ like it.

_It’s different_. Aziraphale had muttered to him, sitting too near, trembling after another close call. _The last one was, too. They’re changing, Crowley._

Crowley’s mind and spirit were in constant battle. He had never felt so unstoppable. Rome came close. The colonial conquests, greed and pride smashed together in a toxic brew, oh that had felt good, too. But now, in this war, this time, Crowley could do _anything_. The commendations were often, glowing, even by Hell’s standards.

His soul quivered with each human sent Below, each heart stopped, each city fallen. Hell and Heaven did not pick sides in human wars. It was people they fought over. A German could be saved. An American could be damned. It mattered not to Hell that the tide had turned, and the Axis was on its back. Humans still murdered in cold blood, still stole, still fucked, a euphoria they never wanted to end.

But, his mind retched. He wanted out. Aziraphale was weary, so tired. Less souls being saved, more tetchy notes, more failures. He had returned the favour to Crowley one year ago, the beaches of Normandy. Crowley had nearly drowned, never did well in water, sent to tempt a few boys from duty to vengeance. Aziraphale had pulled him from the frothing sea, strong arms cradling him, wiping spittle from his lips, hair brushed back. A protector, and Crowley had nearly wept.

He had missed his assignment to make sure aid got into an occupied village by saving him. Crowley still hadn’t forgiven himself.

“A royal flush, my dear. You lose again.” Crowley scowled, pushing a pile of coins and treats and cigarettes over. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow in expectation, and Crowley pulled a face, reluctantly handing over his prized Russian vodka as well, smuggled out 4 years ago.

“Christ. How the heaven does an angel get so good at poker?” Aziraphale merely shrugged, far too innocent looking, as he popped a chocolate in his mouth, examining the cigarette brand carefully.

“Hardly fair. Half of these are water-logged. That’s cheating, putting destroyed property in the pot.” Crowley snatched them back, miracling them dry and sticking one in his mouth. German sirens sounded like British ones, he realized. He could almost believe they were in London once more. He wondered if his Bentley would punish him for being away so long.

The room was cozy. Warm, and that was hard to come by these days. Every resource stretched, scarce. Crowley had a hand in the comfort, willing the chill away, imagining Aziraphale safe, and happy, and secure. Small victories, when the misery seemed unending. Aziraphale was looking at him, hands clasped together, lips caught between his teeth.

Never a good sign.

“They say it should end soon.” Crowley inhaled deeply. A part of him would miss this power. That low, demonic, ugly part that he kept locked away from the being in front of him. He honed in on Aziraphale, that light, that beauty. It was hard not to let the darkness win, at times.

“Who says? My side says dick all.”

“Well... the humans.” Crowley scoffed. He wasn’t feeling too fond of God’s creatures these days. He was itching for another sleep.

“The humans say a lot of things.” Aziraphale’s face crumpled, and Crowley reached out a hand before he could stop himself. He felt the tension unwind, a curious, intoxicating sensation. Touch was coming easier these days, far too easy. They had been so careful for so long. Only when drunk. Only when they were hidden. Not like this; in inns stuffed full of soldiers and civilians, where anyone could be disguised, could be their downfall.

And even then, touch was _fleeting_. Enough plausible deniability to coat the bitter truth, make it go down easier. Crowley was selfish and reckless and all the things a demon should be. That he craved the warm skin under his palm was a cross he had borne for thousands of years.

But, Aziraphale? Drawing closer and closer, pulled towards him, staring at him with eyes full of trust, full of steel? Crowley didn’t know what to make of it. Made his head spin, made his heart collapse on itself, sick with feverish hope.

“When it _is_ over, we need to finish that tequila, yeah? Tempting me with something like that and then getting your arse hauled to Germany.” He tutted, looking over his sunglasses, Aziraphale seemed to calm when he saw his eyes. “Don’t tell me you drank it yourself.”

Aziraphale was quiet a moment, and Crowley had the unsettling sensation of being thoroughly examined. Blue eyes flicked to the hand on his arm, to the tendrils of smoke drifting upwards, brow furrowed.

“We should. We have a lot to discuss, I think.”

Crowley’s heart nearly sank right out of his chest and onto the bloody floor. He schooled his expression into indifference, tried not to think of all the things that had transpired over this war that they could _discus__s__._

“Not much to discuss. The usual bullshit from humans. Think I’ll take another nap after all is said and done.” That was low. He regretted the words, loathed himself for speaking them to life. He didn’t want to discuss things. Talking made it real, made this sanctuary carved out among blood and ash firmly relegated to the past. He knew Aziraphale, better than anything on Earth.

Talking meant it was over.

Aziraphale frowned, but he didn’t turn away. “Really, Crowley? Nothing at all?”

He didn’t get a chance to respond.

It caught them off guard. A whistling overhead, eyes flicking upwards, a table knocked aside, chests pulled together. In their haste to protect, they had forgotten to _stop_. And the bomb hit its mark.

Aziraphale screamed. Crowley did too.

He felt every lick of pain. Crushing. Oh, it was unbearable. Legs snapped like twigs, arms too, he couldn’t feel his body anymore. He screamed, and screamed, and willed all that fucking power into keeping their heads untouched. _Keep him alive! Keep him safe._

It was over even before it began, suffocating, just like Hell, where Crowley had no sense of himself. His neck and head were pinned, the space so small he could barely move.

Focus. He was a _demon._ Sin was everywhere. Just had to tap into it. Just like before. He called for Aziraphale. He couldn’t see him, _he couldn’t see him_. _“_I’m here,” was the shaky reply, and Crowley did not hide his sob of relief.

He tried to remove the building that had collapsed on top of them, rock and cement all mashed and tangled together, where to even begin? Dust was in his throat, in his lungs. Aziraphale was trying to help. He could feel the angelic energy intermix with his own, fluid and seamless. He couldn’t stop picturing Aziraphale’s soft body crushed, irreparable. His heart still sang in his ears, but it was quiet, oh so quiet.

“It’s not working.” His voice was faint, but it was there. He could feel his breath against his cheeks. Crowley tried again, but each time he got close, he felt their bubble of oxygen drain, more rubble fall onto their cheeks.

The realization sank in. Squeezed his heart tight, made it burst.

He couldn’t do both.

Aziraphale realized it as well. There was a cry of pain, a nose scraping against his cheek. “Crowley. It’s not going to work.”

“Yes it _will_.” His eyes were burning, sunglasses hanging off his ears, somewhere around his chin. “Just... just give me a second.”

“Crowley-”

“Fuck off! Fuck off, I can do this!” His voice broke. His cheeks were wet. “I swore I wouldn’t let you die!”

There was another silence. Aziraphale tried one last time. His energy was weak, faint, like it was in Italy. A familiar chill settled over them, felt even beneath the rock and debris. It always knew where to go, uninhibited, relentless.

“Crowley. _Darling_.” That was new. Crowley clung to it, nevermind it wasn’t the right time, nevermind that they hadn’t properly addressed this growing _thing_ between them. “You can let go. I’m okay.”

“No! _N__o_.” He wasn’t bothering to hide the tremble in his voice. The failure. The weakness.

Aziraphale pressed their foreheads together, one last reassurance. Crowley wondered if those cheeks were wet, too. “Tequila, when all this is over.” Their noses touched. Salty tears pooled in his mouth. “Let go, darling.”

The pain was excruciating. He was so tired. He held on as long as he could, the warm skin against his own, breath mingling together. “Come back to me,” he pushed out, desperate and broken. “I’ll wait for you.”

A final cry. The rocks caved in. His world went black instantly, and Death claimed two more.


	2. Chapter 2

_New Zealand, 1949_

It was far too white.

The odour of antiseptic was strong, attacking his lungs, gagging. Humans had been attempting to mask the stench of death ever since their frail bodies were pulled away from God’s mercy. It never worked, not truly. Decay and rot found a way to linger, to slip behind the senses and fill it up, until nothing good remained.

The woman beside him was no exception. Thin chest rattling with every sharp, shallow breath. A forged will on her bedside, a selfish son of hers a little too greedy, poked and prodded into sin by Crowley’s charm. Halfway across the world, stuffed into this sterile hospital, all at Hell’s command.

He should be in London. Every second away snapping back at him, marking his skin. Heart unspooling in his chest, frayed threads seeking deft and caring hands to be made whole again. He had once drawn deep pleasure from sin, that dizzying intoxication that propelled him to god-like heights.

The forged will hollow in his hands, a soulless temptation. What good was power when it was the reason for this moment, alone and empty on a tiny island?

He did not stop watching the woman, had not stopped for three days. Stubborn, clinging to her mortal coil until the bitter end. He could easily finish her. A snap of his fingers, a machine malfunctioning. No one would think twice, would be grateful even, to have the bed vacated once more.

Crowley didn’t. He had killed enough. Necks snapping and rifles firing and bombs dropping all to claim one of God’s creations for himself. Now but a husk, happiness scraped out, leaving nothing in its place. He had not felt warmth in four years.

And so, he waited.

A gasp, eyes flying open, hands scrabbling for one last shred of life. Crowley watched her, leaning forward, muscles rigid and locked into place. She shuddered, whimpered, and breathed no more. And at long last, that chill, that old familiar friend, caressed his skin, wound around his body and whispered that his patience had paid off.

“Death. So good to see you again.” His voice was hoarse, rusty from disuse. Speaking only when necessary, short and clipped. Death had not changed from the moment God placed it on Earth. Black robes and empty eyes over pearly bone. Crowley’s chest constricted with phantom pain, and he stood, ignoring the twinge from his back.

Death did not answer, clutching the soul in its skeletal grasp. Pure and lovely; this one would not be a soul Crowley ever saw again. Strange guilt washed over him at the will on the table. These four years had taken their toll. He squared his shoulders, a caricature of strength. There was no time for pleasantries, not with Death.

“Where is he?” The waver in his voice gave him away, but he did not dwell on wounded pride. His heart had lodged itself into his throat, a soft smile and softer voice playing out in his mind. “It’s been four years, he... it can’t take that long.”

There was only one being in the universe who slipped freely between Heaven and Hell. Who stared into the face of God and conversed with Satan. Crowley did not fear much, not after thousands of years on Earth. He had shaped the stars, could bend reality to his will; an unstoppable force with boundless imagination.

He shouldn’t fear Death, had never feared Death.

But, in this moment, seeking answers in the darkness of empty eyes, he was afraid.

Death turned, its job was finished. Panic pulsed through Crowley, knocking the chair aside. If he touched Death, he would be joining the woman, forced to explain to Hell why he was suddenly down there once more from a routine temptation. His hands quivered and itched, too many limbs and too much sorrow.

“Just tell me! One fucking sentence, I know you can talk!”

Death was fading out of sight. It did not feel angry. Did not feel slighted. Crowley had once been sure it felt nothing at all, only a strange sense of duty, a punishing task only it could carry out. He had talked to Aziraphale about their mysterious counterpart many times, waxing philosophical about what it all meant. He and Aziraphale rarely agreed on the finer points of morality. Hereditary enemies and all.

But, Death. They both felt Death was an entity beyond their understanding, above interfering in affairs it had no concern in.

Except...

“I know that you know!” One last desperate shot. This was dangerous, speaking this to life. You never knew who was watching. He could not be sure of Death’s plan, but it had been four aching years, and Crowley could wait no longer.

“I know it, alright! I saw your report, that’s right, I saw it. I didn’t even know you _gave _demons goddamn Final Reports.”

Death stopped, turning to face him fully and Crowley swallowed. “Final words: _Take me, Master, and kill them all?_ Those weren’t my final words. So-so just fucking tell me already. Where. Is. He.”

_Heaven._

The voice came from nowhere. It was everywhere. From deep inside Crowley, ice filling his veins, subsuming him in a frozen lake, gasping, struggling to draw in breaths. He nearly sunk to his knees, muscles seized up from the chill, that aching chill, a permanent scar on his flesh.

It wasn’t enough. Crowley needed to know more, needed to know,_ let go, darling,_ weren’t the last words he’d ever hear from Aziraphale. Death was facing him, still like always, and Crowley dared to look into those bottomless eyes.

“Why is he taking it so long? When is he coming back?” He could not bear to ask the true question that his heart despaired over. A cursed thing like him, speaking those words, and it was bound to happen, bound to incite God’s wrathful gaze to turn on him and punish him once more.

Death tucked the soul out of sight, lingering for one moment longer before slowly disappearing. Crowley charged forward; he would not let it escape, the only thing that had seen Aziraphale, the only thing with answers.

“Wait! Just bloody wait! Do they _know_? Don’t you dare leave! Hey!” Only a shadow remained, reality shimmering at the edges as Death journeyed into a place not even Crowley could go. Hand reaching out, willing his voice to be heard in the abyss, that maybe, just maybe, Aziraphale would hear him calling.

“Tell him I’m waiting!”

No answer came. Death was gone, and Crowley was alone.

_Britain, 1951_

The sun was low in the sky, painting everything in a soft, orange hue. Tiny nooks danced with playful shadows, the gilded words on ancient spines glinting in the dying day. Nothing was out of place, not a speck of dust dared to remain. Everything still, a bated breath, each tinkle of the bell filled with hope and promise.

Long black limbs stretched out, clashing with the warm oasis. Crowley waited, as he did every day, a spider resting in the corner, eyes seeing everything, piercing and unrelenting. A radio softly sang, because the silence was unbearable, and Crowley could not be alone with his thoughts.

He rarely moved. He sometimes circled around the shop, spindly hands running over books, books that had once been lovingly caressed by Aziraphale. A vase of daffodils atop the desk, plucked four years ago, still fresh and vibrant. Crowley did not much care for daffodils, but Aziraphale did. They were bright, and cheery, and hid little bumblebees in their soft petals. Sometimes he moved the daffodils to the window; a lighthouse in foggy London, beckoning Aziraphale back down to Earth.

Sometimes he drank. He had once drank one of Aziraphale’s rarest wines, in a fit of anguish and rage at the whole blasted world. He had never been able to find another, guilt corroding away at him, selfish, always so selfish. He replaced it with one of his own rarities, tucked away in Aziraphale’s bedroom, a black ribbon from centuries ago tied around the stem.

But, mostly he sat. Leaving only when forced to, ripping up Hell’s accolades upon his return. A red X marked every day in purgatory, 1, 523 days in total. He had not slept, he had not eaten. He moved from the couch to the calendar, crossing off another day, and sat once more.

The bell clanged gently, footsteps picking their way across a floor that had begun to creak and groan as all old bookshop floors should. Crowley sucked a breath through his teeth, pulling crumbs of hatred from his barren heart. _“We’re closed.”_ His voice filled the building, creeping shadows and distorted figures out of the corner of human eyes. He was in no mood for company today.

The footsteps did not stop. No, they increased their pace, faster, faster, and Crowley’s mind, half lost in fog and memories, shook itself from its slumber, something beautiful tugging at it, something familiar...

“Crowley?”

_Aziraphale._

Crowley did not move at first, staring dumbly in disbelief; six long years since he had last seen him, heard his voice, and there he was, shrouded in the halo of the setting sun, close enough to touch, to taste. His clothes were starched and colourless, hair longer than normal but still white blond and curly, framing rosy cheeks and blue eyes and he was _there_, he was _alright._

Aziraphale shifted, hands clasped in front of him. Crowley was on his feet, limbs protesting at the sudden movement, the dull ache in his back a searing reminder. Mind still sluggish, not entirely convinced this wasn’t him finally cracking under years of yawning emptiness. Aziraphale’s eyes followed his every movement, closer, and closer, chest rising and falling.

_Alive._

He had imagined this moment a thousand different ways, and now, standing mere inches apart, Crowley’s normally nimble mind was blank. Gold flecked Aziraphale’s cheeks, dusted across his nose, oh he had been in Heaven a long time, and Crowley should be repulsed by it, but his hands longed to touch.

“Took you long enough,” he finally forced out, mouth dry, limbs trembling, Aziraphale’s final cries echoing in his ears. What a stupid thing to say, and Aziraphale ducked his head, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve.

“Yes, I suppose it did. When did you-”

“1947.” Hell was easy to manipulate, to expedite paperwork with some well placed bribes and forged signatures. Two years Below was two years too long, and Crowley had not rested until he was stuffed back in a body, all wrong, too short, hair a ghastly brown, but he didn’t care. He had rushed to the bookshop, willing his vessel back to its proper glory, only to find an empty shell staring back at him.

“Oh.”

The silence strung out, the final notes of a song warbling in the air, off key and unsettled. Aziraphale was still fidgeting, sneaking glances at him, and Crowley’s hands were balled into fists, and this was wrong, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not when foreheads had been pressed together, lips marking brows, feathers guarding hearts. A crossroads before them, and they were tripping their way down the path where _nothing happened_ and _let’s go back to normal_.

_We have a lot to discuss, I think._

Right. He should have known. Wars were wars, and this was peacetime. Aziraphale had made it clear back then, and now would be no exception, not after bathing in Heaven’s glow for six _demon free_ years.

Not after dying again because of Crowley.

“Are those daffodils?”

“H-huh?”

Aziraphale stepped past him, picking up the vase as carefully as he would his treasured books. The yellow petals stretched towards that golden face. Aziraphale stroked them, an intimate expression, and Crowley felt a surge of jealousy.

“Uhhh yeah. Yeah, looks like it.” Aziraphale turned to him, and that intimate expression didn’t waver, lips turned upwards, eyes soft. Crowley’s hands twitched again, begging to broach those impossible inches between them.

“Are these from you?”

“No.” A little too quickly. A little too defensively. Aziraphale saw right through him.

He caught the hesitation, the eyes flicking upwards for the briefest of seconds. A sudden shift, a change of direction, rushing back towards the crossroads, it wasn’t too late. Hands reached out, tentative, loosely grasping Crowley’s. He was still smiling, but it was taut with worry, and fear, and so much unspoken from the past decade.

It had been this spot where Crowley had gathered Aziraphale to his chest, where he had kissed his head and wrenched the world off its axis, hurtling it somewhere else, somewhere no one could find them.

Crowley laced their fingers together, tightening his grip, a squeeze of reassurance, a silent apology. The worry melted away, bit by bit, until all that was left was Aziraphale in all his splendour, travelling further and further down this new, unmarked path, and Crowley couldn’t let him go, not now.

“You promised me tequila.” Crowley sounded breathless. He couldn’t stop staring. Aziraphale’s hands were warm and soft, just as he remembered, and he was close to folding his wings around him once more. He pulled him closer, and Aziraphale did not resist, touching his forehead to Crowley’s shoulder.

“I did, didn’t I? An angel breaking their promise would be a terrible thing. Shall we then... darling?”

_Darling_.

The words were quiet, a tad uncertain. Spoken too loud and the wrong sort might hear, might get ideas, and rip asunder what had barely begun (what _had_ begun, Crowley wasn’t sure, but he did not want to chance it with too many questions, wouldn’t make that mistake twice). Crowley tilted his head, resting his cheek against the hallowed temple, let the curls tickle his nose. Aziraphale’s breathing was uneven, and so was Crowley’s. Too many words might shatter this, and so they let the silence speak.

He screwed up his eyes, throat constricted, thankful for the glasses, thankful that Aziraphale’s head still rested against him. Six years the world had been silent. Worthless. He allowed his essence to bleed out, ghostly fingers pricking between their interlaced hands, up, and up, and up until he found Aziraphale’s heart and heard it beat its steady rhythm in his ears once more.

That heart had stopped because of him. Once. Twice.

_Never again. _

‘You waited for me.” Twilight had descended, the sun long since out of sight. They had not moved, hands still clasped together, too scared to push much further.

“I told you I would.” He wondered if Aziraphale remembered the minutes before the bomb hit, before Crowley had been too weak to save him. _We have a lot to discuss, I think._ Did he still think that? Was this moment just that? A moment? Never to be repeated, a closing chapter?

Aziraphale inhaled deeply, pulling away, making Crowley’s heart constrict. He gazed at him a long moment, solemn, thoughtful. He was no less beautiful lacking a smile, but it often spelled trouble, spelled resistance, and devotion to a place Crowley was no longer welcome.

He expelled a sharp breath, gave Crowley’s hands a final squeeze. A tequila bottle graciously made its appearance on the table, and Crowley felt faint pinpricks of foolish hope. “You have a lot to catch me up on, I’m afraid. You know how news rarely makes it to our head offices.”

Crowley took his usual place, downing the tequila and reaching for more. It burned the entire way down, an old friend. Aziraphale was examining the daffodils once again, running his fingers along the soft petals, a gentle smile on his face. Crowley planned on filling his neglected flat with daffodils, as many daffodils as he could get his hands on.

He expected Aziraphale to sit across from him. London was quiet; no sirens, no bombs, no old buildings tumbling down. Aziraphale paused by his armchair, lovingly worn in and faded, favourite sweater still hanging on the back. A strange look crossed his face, before he was shuffling out of his drab jacket, tossed to the ground, and tugging his sweater around his frame.

And when sat, he sat beside Crowley. Legs touching, beaming smile, but with haunted eyes, searching Crowley’s face, still unsure, still fearful of those once entrenched boundaries.

Crowley dared to lay a hand on his, still in disbelief himself, half-convinced God would smite him down at any second. Aziraphale’s gaze flicked to their hands, shutting his eyes briefly, but he remained.

He remained.

_Britain, 1959_

Snowflakes fell silently, invisible but for the blazing lights from the building in front of him. They dusted his hair, ran rivulets down his jacket, and he willed one to land atop of his finger, perfectly pristine and intact.

There was music spilling out onto the quiet streets, voices blending together and rising to the heavens. A certain tranquility, alone on the darkened boulevard, shimmering lights strung along barren trees and wound around angelic figures. Any moment now and the peace would be disturbed, goodness saturating the air and making his instincts fester, itching to corrupt, itching to consume.

He touched the snowflake to his tongue, felt it melt; beauty subsumed, part of him now, forever.

The doors burst open, men, woman, children filled with peace, even if they hardly believed anymore, even if the world’s misery weighed them down and crushed their hope. It was almost wonderful, Crowley couldn’t help but think. These humans and their resiliency, even when forever stained by what he had done.

Aziraphale was in the distance, chatting away, touching blessed hands to sickly heads, soothing touches to anxious youngsters. Crowley stood straighter, drinking him in, beautiful, the most beautiful creature God had ever thought to life. Donned in a black jacket and blacker gloves, the only splash of colour atop his head.

Aziraphale felt his eyes, and the smile that overtook his face was not the one he bestowed on his Earthly charges. Crowley’s arms readied themselves, breathing hard through his nose, as Aziraphale picked his way through the crowd, grin stretching from ear to ear.

“I thought you weren’t coming back until the New Year!” He tangled their hands together, tucking them away safely between their dark jackets. No hesitation, no eyes roving around for who might be watching. Crowley squeezed the hands hard, pulled them closer to his chest, so that his heart could be reassured of its company.

“Ah well, you know how it is. They only really need a prod in the right direction and then they sort of... do the rest of the work themselves.” Aziraphale gazed at him, radiating undisguised joy, the gold spattered across his face only enhancing his perfection. “Finishing up your yearly quota as usual?” He nodded to the little church, the faint stirrings of the organ singing in the air. “Should I... see you tomorrow then?”

He quirked an eyebrow, tone light, careless, but something cold slithered into his stomach anyway, because even now, after eight years, now could be the day Aziraphale turned his back on him.

“Oh stop. It’s after midnight, anyway. And who’s to say a little good cheer wouldn’t do you well, darling?” He pressed closer, beaming up at him, and Crowley suddenly began to rather question his disdain towards this holiday.

“Well, what sort of demon would I be if I turned down an angel so willing?” There was the faintest flicker, a hairline fracture in both their smiles, but Crowley would not let him go, and Aziraphale would not pull away. “Lift home? An angel shouldn’t soil their feet on this _holy_ day.”

There was a gentle hit on his arm, Crowley opening the door and mock bowing, ducking his head to hide the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth as Aziraphale tipped his checkered hat at him.

Even Crowley could admit London was stunning at Christmas. The garland hanging from every lamppost, fat Father Christmases (which he took full credit for) dotting the shop windows, tempting little children to consumerism and vapidity. Aziraphale was humming, hand firmly intertwined with Crowley’s free one. Crowley let this wash over him, that he _had_ this, whatever it was, it didn’t matter.

He had _Aziraphale_.

Aziraphale had hung a wreath on the door, candles illuminating the windows, persuaded gently from burning down to the wick and wreaking havoc on his shop. It was warm, and cozy, and he knew Aziraphale would likely invite him in to tuck into wine and the Christmas treats he always seemed to get for free from nearby bakeries.

He didn’t want that. The Bentley was cold and shrouded in shadows, and perhaps it was the faintest stirrings of what he truly was making themselves known, but he wanted Aziraphale here for just a little bit longer.

“Listen, before you head out spreading more _goodwill towards Man_, I have something for you.”

As expected, Aziraphale lit up, curls poking out from underneath his hat, perfect ringlets around his forehead and cheeks. He had kept the longer hair from this new vessel, hardly noticeable to the dull human eye, but Crowley could tell. He despised that Heaven had gotten something right, that Aziraphale with longer curls was more glorious than Crowley could have ever imagined.

“You did? Oh, what is it?” He wiggled in his seat, shutting his eyes tightly and holding out his hands. Crowley lingered on the image for the briefest of moments, memorizing the way the flickering candlelight highlighted the round cheeks, the plump lips.

“You don’t need to shut your eyes, it’s in a box.” He curled Aziraphale’s fingers around it anyway, snatching every opportunity to touch, bold and unhindered, let them fucking look. Aziraphale carefully unwrapped it, tucking the red ribbon into his jacket, and Crowley forced himself to continue watching, forced his expression into haughty indifference despite his pounding heart.

“Crowley...” Breathless, holding up the mug. Golden angels framed the edges, blowing trumpets, announcing peace to the world, a church reaching towards the sky in the middle. “Oh... oh it’s magnificent.”

“Kipped into Nuremberg on my way back. I know you’re into that sort of rubbish.” It was expensive and hand painted and Crowley had spent hours scouring the market for the right one.

Aziraphale did not say anything for a long moment, turning the mug round and round, delicate fingers sweeping over the painted angels. He looked at Crowley, eyes shining, lips wobbling just the slightest. “I don’t have anything to give you.”

Crowley nearly recoiled at that. This was the holiday he felt his weakest, felt his veneer of fondness towards humanity bleed away and Hell’s fire lick at his essence. He shut his eyes, centring himself on Aziraphale; his smile, the _power _that radiated from him on this day, pure and faultless. “Don’t need anything, you know I bloody hate Christmas.”

Aziraphale considered that, brows furrowed as he regarded the mug, and then Crowley. He set it carefully on the dashboard, eyes lingering on the car for a strange little moment, before he turned to Crowley, a shy smile lighting his lips. “Well, perhaps you’ll indulge me anyway and let me give you a hug?”

They did not hug, had not hugged since _that_ moment nearly twenty years ago. Hands were held safely in cars and under pale moonlight, telephone numbers exchanged and long distance calls across the yawning oceans, and sometimes daring fingers filled with liquid courage found their way into strands of hair. It was simple, more than Crowley had ever dared to hope for, and not a day passed that he didn’t pinch himself that _this_ was the decade he had been living.

But, Aziraphale had spoken the words and now it didn’t seem enough, hands clasped together or heads laid on shoulders. He wanted _more._

Aziraphale crossed the space between them and slotted himself into Crowley’s arms, fitting as perfectly as he did all those years ago, head tucked into his neck, breathing a sigh of relief. Crowley’s grip was tight, unapologetic, tangling in those soft curls. Aziraphale’s cologne filled his lungs, sank into his blood, worming into all that was destructive and bursting into angelic light.

Both slow to pull away, Aziraphale looking at him, beatific and shining, and Crowley did not resist allowing all those things he should find revolting to wash over him. He should not touch, should not soil something so splendid, but his hand ghosted across the gold flecked cheeks anyway, lips parted, Aziraphale’s eyes shutting.

He did not feel like himself, filled up with Aziraphale, drunk on it, swaying. Aziraphale was strength and power, chipping away at a gruesome core with gentle hands and gentler words. It was Christmas, and he was allowed to sail towards the Divine; Aziraphale so close he could see every eyelash curled against his face. The windshield was covered in snow, a hidden world for two, a touch of darkness despite the light.

“Would you have stayed?” The words quivered, crashed upon rocky shores. Two decades stretched before them, and still that question remained, lingering over them both, a moment, a linchpin filled with regret. Aziraphale reaching out, a rare, impossible feat. Crowley forced to turn away, no matter how reluctant, no matter how critical it was to their very survival.

And now, Aziraphale was reaching out again. Dangling on the precipice once more, scared, unsure, but yearning to step off. He remembered that stricken expression as the bookshop had faded behind him, remembered the unadulterated relief that had greeted him ankle deep in snow as Russia wept around them.

He cradled his face as he had back then, Hell felt so very far away. “You know I would have.” He could feel Aziraphale’s breath fanning across his cheeks, touching his lips, a whisper, a prayer. “For as long as you would have needed.”

The world was paused, but they were moving, something unfurling between them; a newborn star, pulsating and brilliant to behold. Their lips touched, a second of tension, high and unsure, before Aziraphale was melting against him, and Crowley was catching him, swallowing the burning, acrid holiness.

This couldn’t be happening. Not to him. A damned, infernal thing sunk deep in ethereal light. But, Aziraphale hadn’t pulled away, Crowley’s heart soaring high into a Heaven he didn’t believe in anymore. He could taste vestiges of cinnamon and wine; soft lips that silently begged to be handled with care. Too much, too soon, and Aziraphale would retreat. Crowley could not lose him again to the winds of time, not when so much of themselves had been stitched together.

He cupped Aziraphale’s neck, gave himself away to absolution, and Aziraphale responded in kind.

Crowley was hardly there as they broke apart, dazed and dizzy in a way sin had never provided. He wanted another, and another still, to pull Aziraphale in his orbit fully, where no one else could touch him.

But, there was a tinge of fear in Aziraphale’s eyes, in the way he licked his lips; for a moment, teetering on the edge of fleeing back to his world of comfort and simplicity. Crowley did not pull his gaze away, urging him to stay, a starry sky full of promise, if only Aziraphale would take that final step.

They let out a breath in time, and Aziraphale’s lips quirked, shy and uncertain, but it was a smile and Crowley was smiling too, raw and unending, just this once. “What- what does this mean?”

“Whatever you want it to mean.” Careful steps, delicate, like crouching in front of little ducklings and tempting them with old bread. He could not fuck this up with reckless abandon, not now, not when he was so close at last. Thousands of years of envy and hopeless patience and lies, lies that he could be content with simply being around Aziraphale.

“Well,” he took a breath, and then another, eyes straying to Crowley’s lips and back to his eyes. Crowley’s heart fluttered in his chest, aching to take flight. “Perhaps it means you could... come inside?”

It was a slowing down, a pause, a silent plea for just a little more time. Crowley could wait, had been waiting as the world spun year after year and dangled the untouchable in front of him. The door was not closed, Aziraphale sinking just that bit further into his embrace, trembling and shaking, but he was _there. _

“Course. Course, angel.” Voice cracked, something pleasing and hopeful and nearly pathetic in its longing, but it made Aziraphale’s smile grow and that was all that mattered to Crowley in that moment. A gentle tug on Aziraphale’s hat, setting it back in place, as soft as it had been two decades ago. “Nobody is ever going to find out. I promise.”

A promise he had repeated every year. When they had first twined their hands together. When Aziraphale had dared to lay his head on his shoulder after a long separation. When Crowley had brushed a stray hair back, impulsive as always.

When Aziraphale had returned to him from Heaven, soaked in Grace, and chosen to fall into his arms.

Aziraphale’s eyes did not flick upwards like normal. Instead they sauntered downwards, swallowing thickly, tugging Crowley closer, a gleam of righteous fury.

“They won’t.”

_Cuba, 1962_

It was never a good thing when their assignments matched.

For two sides, sworn enemies, bleating on about thwarting and wrangling over souls, they were remarkably terrible at countering each other. A twisted wreckage of conflicting desires; Aziraphale in Argentina, a mission of absolute importance to hinder Hell, while Crowley was in Japan, the exact same orders in hand. Both sides were fuck ups, lazy ones at that, and Crowley had no qualms about exploiting that over and over.

But, sometimes their orders lined up, Crowley forced to face Aziraphale down, a stark reminder of what they were and what was at stake.

They had missed the advent of nuclear weapons, the horror humans had unleashed on their pitiful world. Not even Hell had anticipated the raw, destructive power the humans were capable of. Crowley had been pestering for a body when Hell itself quaked, an evil, potent and deadly and nothing like they had ever experienced before, swept over all of them. Crowley had tried to resist, tried to stop collapsing into its toxic ecstasy, nearly spilling Aziraphale’s name in desperation.

Nuclear war hung over their heads, a Sword of Damocles they refused to address. Perhaps that was the true reason Aziraphale had drawn so close to him, no second chances anymore, a journey with Death was final. Humans wrung their hands and gnashed their teeth at what they had wrought and Aziraphale and Crowley tucked into each other, counting down the minutes to Earth’s expiration.

They had become good at pretending the humans had not changed. Each scare blew over, and another day dawned. Crowley loathed God, but not even She would ever allow Her _beloved_ creations to permanently destroy themselves.

Well, he had been wrong about God before.

Aziraphale was beside the radio, knuckles white and clasped to his lips, listening to the frantic Spanish that filled the suffocating room. White washed walls and white washed beds and Crowley was tired of white, white, that hid nothing, that exposed everything. Dreadful anticipation pricked at him, the choking fear of the island a drug in its own right, stretching his spine, coiling around his heart.

He paced around the room, another lap, the carpet was going to start fraying. “What are they saying?” His Spanish was rusty, the Inquisition bitter on his tongue.

Aziraphale didn’t answer, merely leaned closer, a passing car illuminating the dark circles under his eyes.

“Well?”

“Hush, Crowley! I can’t hear!”

Thirteen days had never felt so long, hanging on the knife’s edge, slipping and sliding and slick with blood. Aziraphale fluttered about Cuba, whispering in diplomat’s ears, calm, calm, a soothing presence, an olive branch bridging an impossible chasm. The world waited with bated breath, Heaven and Hell drawing their lines in the sand, their human chess board stuffed full of pawns and nothing more.

At the centre of it all Aziraphale, one solitary Earthly guardian, wings stretched out from Washington to Moscow, blessings trickling down souls, willing goodness into a world that sought damnation.

Crowley hated them all.

His own wings hovered close to the mortal plane, rigid, coiled tight. Mind focused on the stars, Alpha Centauri, crystal clear in his mind as the day he had breathed it to life. God may decide to turn Her gaze from Earth, but Crowley owed Her nothing, and he would not allow them to burn with Her creation.

_Never again. _

A sudden silence. Aziraphale shook the radio, eyes blown wide and Crowley was there in an instant, ready to grab, to tuck Aziraphale into his heart and take flight. Aziraphale resisted, Crowley snarled, and then the radio crackled to life, breathless.

Even Crowley could discern what had just happened. Could feel the fear snap, a high pitched whine, before joy rushed into the empty space, relief and tears and thanks to God cascading over the island. Aziraphale stared at the little device, mouth hanging open. He had done it, he had saved the whole fucking lot of them, and Crowley suddenly felt himself be twirled around, kisses raining down on his cheeks, his eyes, his lips.

“Crowley! Crowley! It’s over, it’s really over!”

It was over and lead lined Crowley’s stomach. The air shimmered, a Heavenly accolade landing on the pristine bed, long and filled with praise, a golden sigil marking the highest recognition an angel could receive. Aziraphale read it once, twice, kissed it greedily, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. Crowley stood there, heart constricted, breath uneven.

_Crowley._

The radio flicked to life again, a soft voice slipping between the speaker, punctured with venom. Aziraphale stared at it, then back to Crowley, paper still clutched to his chest.

“Ligur, what a pleasure!” His voice swaggered and swung, face nonchalant, but Aziraphale’s eyes were wide, inching closer to him. Crowley stepped away.

_Why are you not in Washington, Crowley?_

Aziraphale’s mouth fell open, and Crowley stammered, laughing as if this were any old day and any old temptation gone slightly awry.

“Oh-oh well... well you know how it is, need to be where... where the action is. I _was _in Washington, but the humans were... they were doing alright and...”

_Liar._ He could picture Ligur’s face, the eyes deepening to red, rusty and bloody. _Our operatives tell us you were never there. Now why would that be, Crowley? You had an order. From our Master himself._

The colour flooded out of Aziraphale’s face, a spark of anger in the twist of his mouth, that steely gaze. Crowley kept his eyes firmly on the radio, throat tight, vision swimming, all he could do to stay upright and maintain this crumbling facade. “Well... well I’m sure he’d... our Master would understand... just explain it to him and-and all.”

_A fine idea. _A soft laugh, a thousand cuts inflicted simultaneously. _Why don’t you come back and tell him yourself?_

The air cracked with a sudden electricity, and the radio short-circuited, sparks flying, singing the desk and Aziraphale’s clothes. He was breathing heavily, eyes blazing, and Crowley shrank despite himself, the full onslaught of the Guardian of the Eastern Gate bearing down on him.

“You told me you were meant to be in Cuba, too.”

“No, no, I never said that,” Crowley’s voice snapped like a whip, that damned pride, needing to defend himself, especially to Aziraphale. “I said I was assigned to this stupid, fucking human event just like you and-”

“And you ignored a _direct order_?” Crowley clenched his fists, body quivering. Aziraphale looking at him like one of the Dukes of Hell would, filled with shock and rage, a tainted thing that did not belong on such a perfect face. He inhaled sharply, this was Aziraphale, remember, remember. He had done this for him, only for him.

“Oh, what, what you would have _wanted_ me to carry it out?! Do you fucking realize what they were asking me to do, Aziraphale? Tempt the President into pushing the button, launching those fucking nukes! Is that what you want?” Aziraphale grabbed his arm, Crowley’s eyes narrowed in response, slits, deadly slits.

“You should have trusted me to handle it! A direct order, Crowley! We have _never_ disobeyed orders, not even with the Arrangement, you know that! It’s too dangerous, how,-how could you?” The faintest tremble among the fury, and Crowley allowed it to slice open his skin.

“I can’t save you from a nuclear weapon!” The truth, unvarnished and raw, plunked between them, Crowley’s voice cracking from the weight of it. “If those bombs started flying I wouldn’t have time to fucking sweep in and rescue you, you bloody idiot, don’t you get that?! I couldn’t- I _wouldn’t_ let you-let you burn.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were watery, he could never sustain his anger for long, soft edges and forgiveness. The room shook, darkness seeping into the cracks, clawing at Crowley’s very essence. He captured Aziraphale’s face, memorized the round cheeks, the bouncy curls, the plump lips that marked stars along his freckled skin.

“You listen to me, you bloody listen to me, Aziraphale. You keep that head attached to your body, you got it? Huh?” He shook him slightly, cut off the protest, the questions, the fear. “You put yourself first, above all else, understand?”

“Crowley-!”

He swallowed the sentence, crashing their lips together, desperate and needy, tongue flicking inside the warm mouth and relishing in the taste. This was not how he wanted a kiss like this to happen, content with the gentle steps at Aziraphale’s pace, but there was no time for guilt. Aziraphale flinched in surprise, eyes still round with shock and alarm, but he did not resist. He poured whole worlds into the kiss; forbidden desires and unspoken confessions and hoped to _something_ that Aziraphale would understand.

“Don’t come looking for me,” he whispered into his ear, the siren song from Below gathering strength, any moment now, time slipping like sand between their fingers. “I’ll come back to you. I promise.”

He gathered the last tendrils of panic, pictured London, Aziraphale secure among his books and treasures, warm and untouchable. Aziraphale was still holding onto him, shaking his head, urging him to flee, that he could protect Crowley too, to please just trust him.

“Sorry, angel.” A snap. The room was empty, Aziraphale’s last words hanging in the air. Just enough time for sunglasses to hide his eyes, the truth spelled out too clearly. An arm suddenly wrapped around his neck, pungent stench of rot and dripping flesh, cigarette smoke and black eyes.

“Time’s up, Crowley.” Hastur laughed, squeezing and squeezing until Crowley let out a strangled gasp. “Been waiting to get my hands on you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just absolutely floored at the response this fic has gotten. To everyone who has left comments, kudos, subscribed, and bookmarked- thank you all from the bottom of my heart. You have been such an inspiration for this story, and are why I'm so glad I came back to this universe!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Crowley is tortured in this chapter. As promised in chapter one, the actual acts of torture are not shown, and the descriptions related to it are vague, and not explicit. There are also brief mentions of suicide/suicidal thoughts, but I do stress these are very, very brief and not at all in-depth.

Crowley would not scream.

His corporeal form was destroyed. There was only so much trauma flesh and bone could endure before it simply could not go on anymore. Crowley had felt it slide from him, piece by piece, ripped to shreds before his eyes. Skin that had touched Aziraphale, lips that had kissed him, hair that had been stroked by soft fingers. His true form forced free, a hideous thing, scarred flesh, and gaunt cheeks, and spindly limbs forged from pure malice.

It suited his tormentors just fine. Their weapons were meant for souls, to leave permanent scars, torn deep, deep, deep into his core. Words equally as cutting, there in the dark, where there was no time, was no space. He was soft. Weak. _Human_. Laid there, exposed, no body to hide the truth anymore. Crowley had changed.

And Hell was determined to change him back.

Hastur came often. His words were clumsy. His weapons were not. Ligur was just the opposite. He caressed him, wondered where it had all gone so wrong. Circling around the truth, round and round, tasting Crowley’s terror. A hand laid over his skeletal chest, fingers tapping, searching for what ailed this demon, this once proud son of Hell.

And still, Crowley would not scream.

* * * * *

_Aziraphale was touching his chest again._

_He hardly seemed aware of it. Huddled over a fragile copy of _Daemonolgie, _a cup of tea long since gone cold. Crowley observed him from the sofa, the way his fingers slid along his vest, over and over, restless. He counted the seconds, the minutes, and still the fingers continued their strange journey. _

“_You alright?” _

_Aziraphale jumped, glasses askew, as if he had quite forgotten he had company. Crowley pushed his own glasses further up his nose, head tilted back in feigned nonchalance, but gaze never wavering. They had not spoken for hours, the silence comfortable and familiar. Crowley rarely broke a silence like that, not even now, with so much changed between them._

“_Whatever do you mean?” A chance to back out. To carry on as normal. It dangled in front of him, no need to pry open locked doors. Aziraphale’s expression was shy, but sincere. Crowley could reach out and his touch would be received. Welcomed. A dinner date suggested, ordering in perhaps, the hot new thing among the humans. _

_But, Crowley’s curiosity tugged at him, unrelenting, and the words spilled out before he could stop them._

“_Your chest. You keep touching it. You have been ever since you got back.” _

_Aziraphale flushed, and immediately Crowley regretted bringing it up. Only a year and half since Aziraphale’s return, something growing between them, delicate as daffodils. Uncertainty lingered, clung to their clothes and between interlaced hands. A reckless fuck-up and it all could come crashing down, Aziraphale scurrying back to sterile halls and self-righteous words._

“_No! No, I don’t.” A titter of nervous laughter, eyes darting everywhere except Crowley. He was a horrible liar, always had been. Part and parcel of an angel. Crowley had long understood, long taken this burden upon himself, circling around Aziraphale, a snake seeking out other predators. He would never allow Aziraphale to have to stick his neck out, risk incurring Heaven’s wrath because of what they had done. _

_Aziraphale stood, face a dark red, highlighting the gold like a setting sun. “Ah, my tea’s gone cold! Drat! I’ll have to brew a new one, you don’t mind, right?” _

_He was gone before Crowley could answer, and Crowley could only stare, mind awash in doomsday scenarios. Heaven must have done something to him. The bastards. Not enough to infuse gold on his face and adorn his head in cherubic curls. No, no, they had to mark him, and claim him, and Crowley would not let their deeds go unpunished._

_He was halfway to the tiny kitchen before his eyes fell on the book. King James had always been obsessed with the occult, paranoid and pious, never a good mix in a human. Crowley had gotten a right laugh when it had been first published; the idea of him being beholden to God was a comedy in of itself. _

_Aziraphale had been reading the classifications of demons, fine little notes from a time long passed scribbled in the margins. Aziraphale knew better than anyone the whole treatise was rubbish, but perhaps he found it quaintly amusing as well... _

_Oh, oh, _oh.

_No. It couldn’t be. Aziraphale wouldn’t long for that. Why would his fingers seek that out? A damned thing, a mark from Below, where angels could never tread. Crowley’s mind had been too far gone in what possibilities lay before him with holding hands and soft touches. Ridiculous, ridiculous. He needed to snap out of this._

_But, oh. No, it _had_ to be. Aziraphale had been the one to claim it in the first place. To miracle it into his very skin, right over his heart. And of course it was no longer there, buried somewhere in Germany, too far gone to retrieve. _

_It was hard to breathe. Crowley’s skin pricked warm and cold all at once, creeping over his neck and stinging his eyes. If he was wrong about this, he would never be able to look Aziraphale in the face again. Exposing himself was dangerous. The first time was an accident, easy to explain. Wings held out for hours, only natural one would fall. But, this..._

_His wings were out before he could think, slender fingers plucking a near identical twin from the plumage. The same rust red, the same glimmer of cursed diamonds, sending little rainbows across the pages as it caught the light. Crowley stuck it in the book and slammed it shut, near running to the exit, ignoring Aziraphale’s calls. _

_He drove, and drove, and drove, mind screeching at him for what he had done. He did not stop until he reached the coast, and sat there, hands clenched around the steering wheel, watching the sun set and come once more. Slow to drive back, half-convinced Aziraphale was around every corner._

_There was something on his floor as he entered his flat. An envelope, no markings, no postage. Slid under his door by the looks of it. Crowley made sure not to receive mail, an annoyance he never wanted to deal with. Postmen always mysteriously skipped over his box on their rounds. A fellow demon perhaps. They had become quite accustomed to radio communication, but perhaps, one stuck far in the past, like Hastur._

_He nearly dropped the envelope as he lifted the flap. Shaking fingers held it up to his eyes, hardly daring to believe, and he sank down to his knees, letting his glasses clatter to the ground._

_Soft. Beautiful. Interspersed with threads of gold and hints of silver._

_A white feather._

_* * * * *_

“What’s this?”

A hand ran along his spine, digging deep the entire way down. Crowley hung there, staring into the great nothing before him. He could not see who it was, but he knew the voice, knew the sadistic fingers clawing down his back.

There was not much left of him. Pain unending. How long had he been here? A desperate, dangerous part of him wished for Aziraphale. To see the white wings burst across his vision. Smiting them all mercilessly. Pulling Crowley up into the stars.

“What’s what?” Scraps of arrogance, all he could muster. Hastur was so vile it came easy with him. He tried to picture his old form. Red hair. Deep voice. Clothes draped over a lanky frame. _Beautiful,_ an angel would sometimes whisper. He had that over Hastur. He _had_ that.

“Got like a scar or something.” Another pass, one slimy finger, tracing it, and Crowley went rigid.

He should have suspected. It had never been part of his human body. Too deep, too filled with sorrow and brokenness and reminding, always reminding him. He forced his body to remain still, sluggish mind feverishly weaving something together. Blow this and he would have more to worry about than mere cruelty.

“You did that. Don’t you remember?” It was hard to keep his voice from trembling. “You said you’d make sure I’d never forget.”

A long pause, Crowley trying to gather up faint tendrils of strength in order to run, before a harsh laugh rang out.

“Oh yeah. Yeah, now I remember. Got you good, didn’t I?”

Hastur was circling him now, the only sound the shuffling of his feet. Crowley had long since stopped trying to make out his figure in the void. “Might just leave you here for good. See, Ligur’s been going up there in your place. Doing a real fine job of it, too.”

Crowley froze.

“Says the angel they got up there is real stupid. Real pathetic like. What was his name again?”

Crowley could not answer. Panic clawed down his throat and into his chest. Ligur had seen Aziraphale. Knew he was in London. Knew what he looked like.

No, no, _no_.

He would eliminate him over, and over, and over, and over, and no, _no_, Crowley could not let him touch Aziraphale. He had left him up there, defenceless, expecting Crowley to come back, any day now, any week, any year (had it already been so long?). Crowley had promised to always keep him safe and where was he? Here in this void, this gaping, empty darkness, while Ligur tightened his grip around London and Aziraphale, memorizing his patterns, his delights, his routine.

Ligur would not stop at discorporation. A never-ending game of oozing venom, barbed words, careful cruelty. To see if he could break Aziraphale.

To see if he could _Fall._

“Ah, it don’t matter. You’ll miss out on the fun, but don’t worry.” He gave Crowley a firm shove. “We’ll fill you in on all the details.”

Hastur’s laugh echoed in the abyss, and Crowley nearly screamed.

* * * * *

_Aziraphale’s lips were soft._

_Crowley had come to crave them, pressed against his own, gaining confidence, gaining hunger. Dusted with sugar, seared with alcohol, and always impossibly plump, fitted perfectly, as if God Herself had designed them just for Crowley. _

_The flickering lights of the cinema danced across their faces, Crowley’s hand curled around Aziraphale’s neck, resisting the urge to tug at the curls, turn sweetness into seduction. Aziraphale so rarely initiated kisses, had caught Crowley off guard when he tilted his face, eyes shining, and pulled him close. He could not spoil it with his own desires, that dark little voice that begged for more. _

“_We’re missing the movie.” An eyebrow quirked, face schooled into displeasure as they broke apart. Aziraphale quirked an eyebrow right back, a delicious smile spreading across his face, and Crowley’s skin tingled, pricking up to his throat. He tilted his neck ever so slightly, let Aziraphale’s eyes feast on the stubbled skin. Two could play this game._

“_Why, I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience.” No anxious wiggle, no paranoid eyes. Alone in the darkened cinema, all other humans willed away. He had never seen a movie with Aziraphale before, the novelty making his heart flutter. No pretext of business, never fully allowed to relax. No, this was pleasure, plain as the day broke. _

“_Didn’t say that.” He brushed his hand against the cheeks, felt the dim vestiges of Heaven as he did so. The gold remained, and Crowley had come to enjoy it, a perverse reminder of the forbidden fruit he had unbelievably stolen away. “Is this your very indirect way of telling me you prefer the theatre?”_

_A far too innocent shrug, leaning into Crowley’s touch, eyelids slipping shut for the briefest of seconds. Crowley could not get enough, that moment in the car unleashing something he had never dared hope would spring to life. “Well, the theatre is far superior, you must admit.”_

“_Shut up.” And they were kissing again. Crowley sought heat, sought fire, but Aziraphale resisted. A slowing down, an exploration. Hands wandering to his hair, a soft little sigh into Crowley’s mouth that made shivers race down his spine, almost enough to quell the never-ending ache. _

_The mischievous expression had melted into fondness this time, Aziraphale still stroking the short hairs at the back of his neck. Crowley allowed his own eyes to shut, hidden behind his glasses. Gentle touches and gentle words and Crowley never wanted this decade to end. Tumbling into the 60’s, a sense of foreboding deep in his stomach. _

_Good things never lasted for him._

“_I suppose we should watch the movie. We did come all this way.” Aziraphale adjusted his bow-tie, smoothed down his jacket, and just as Crowley was about to kick up his legs, an arm slid around him. _

_He was falling. Pulled down towards something, old terror bouncing around his brain, before he realized what was happening. Tucked against Aziraphale’s shoulder, safe and secure. Feeling every breath, heady cologne swarming his senses. _

“_What-what’re you doing?” No. No, this wasn’t right. This wasn’t how it should be. Voice choked, laced with outrage, with anger. Aziraphale frowned down at him, the hand that had been winding through his hair stilled. _

“_I-I...” scrambling for words, they did not do this, did not dredge up plain truths and force them into each other’s faces. Both content with their dance, the song only they could decipher, despite not getting it right at times. “Well... well, I’m holding you. You hold me all the time, darling, and-”_

_Crowley struggled away from him. This was not them, had never been them. Crowley held as if he were small and weak. Aziraphale stared at him, utterly at a loss, and only that tempered the harsh words laying on Crowley’s tongue._

“_Don’t need to be held, Aziraphale.” _

“_Crowley, what on Earth is the problem?” But, Crowley was already standing, heart pounding against his throat, this was Aziraphale, this was who he had just been kissing, been caressing, calm, calm. _

“_Need a smoke.” He ignored the questions, the stunned expression. He tempted the ticket taker to steal from the till, tempted the young woman outside to cheat on her husband, tempted a passerby to pick up gambling, and it still wasn’t enough. _

_Their arms remained folded for the rest of the movie. And neither could remember what it was about._

_* * * * *_

Hundreds of eyes stared down at him, Crowley spread on the ground, long limbs outstretched, face deep in a reverent bow. He could not remember when he had last seen light, even the dim, flickering bulbs of Hell too much for his eyes. The ground cold, slick with slime and blood, but Crowley took solace in it, for it was not his blood. Not this time.

“Lord Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, I come to you, this lowly servant, to confess to my failure and my disobedience.”

Beelzebub high in their twisted throne of bone and souls, unpleasant buzz a constant reminder of their power, their eyes lurking around every corner. Crowley did not dare look up, not yet, every movement must be perfect, every note hit.

“The nature of your crimes is well-known, demon Crowley. Why else have you requested to speak in my presence?” A deceptively soft voice, flat and drawn out. How many arrogant human souls had mistaken boredom for weakness, that this Prince was easy to sway. How many of them forced into that very chair, a close listen, and the pleas could still be heard.

“I have earned my punishment. I revel in my punishment.” Somewhere to his left, Hastur let out a peel of laughter. “And I believe I am ready to return to my duties, to carry out our Master’s wishes.”

“Your failure to carry them out is the very reason you are here,” and there was the slight buzz, the lilt of faint delight. Crowley dared to raise his head, take in the awe of the ugly monstrosity that was Beelzebub.

“I understand. But, Lord Beelzebub, we shouldn’t forget my history of deeds and accomplishments. The Spanish Inquisition.”

Dagon scoffed.

“100 _million_ people killed in the two world wars.”

Murmurs of begrudged appreciation.

“Doubt and longing for sin in every corner of the world.”

Agreement now in the crowd, but Crowley did not falter, eyes locked with Beelzebub, careful, careful, almost there.

“And of course, Eve. The Original Sin. Winning more souls for our Master even to this day.”

Beelzebub considered this, slouched on their throne, flies dancing around their head and picking at the festering rot. “I alone know the humans, better than _anyone_. Our Master needs me for the modern world, to make sure the Opposition doesn’t get ahead.”

“Your accomplishments are... notable.” Crowley never broke eye contact, his neck hurting from the bow, limbs crying out from being held so still. Deliberate steps, this fly on the wall, this all seeing entity that flitted through small cracks and buzzed and buzzed until madness set in. A hand closing around it, slowly now, slowly.

Crowley lowered his head once more, palms turned upwards, every scar on his body exposed for Hell to see. “And as a show of unwavering loyalty... I request a cleansing.”

Excitement rippled through the weary crowd, electricity charged in the air, palatable, singeing Crowley’s paper thin flesh. The throne creaked, the Damned souls weeping, as Beelzebub descended. A firm hand under his chin, tilting it upwards. Beelzebub rarely showed emotion. They were not Hastur, expressive and moody and easy to fool. But, in their eyes, a flicker of glee, despite the placid face.

“Arise, demon Crowley. Your request is granted.”

There was a scramble towards the hallway, demons and humans alike shoving each other aside, knocking into tables, scattering papers, light bulbs bursting from the anticipation. Crowley in the middle, staring straight ahead, ignoring the jeers, the promises of pain.

He looked inwards. Deep, deep, right down to his very core. Aziraphale was there. Spun like fine gold, stitched throughout every facet of his essence, a complex pattern, thousands of years old. A million pinpricks of stars upon an inky sky, twinkling merrily, timeless.

Crowley had once made the stars. Breathed life into nebulas. Poured mystery into black holes. Slung comets into the cosmos, carrying countless wishes. Every step taken, he plucked another star from his soul, one by one.

_Aziraphale trying on his glasses, tugging his bow-tie around Crowley’s neck, and laughing at their reflections in the mirror._

Hastur and Ligur were beside him, nails piercing his arms, hatred raw and red, marking him one last time.

_Aziraphale practising his magic in front of him, trying and failing for the fifth time to guess his card correctly, a sly little pout flashed every time Crowley tried to get up and leave. _

Deep into Hell now, all traces of modernity vanished. High, cavernous walls, coated with old misery, a steady drip, drip, drip of black acid.

_Aziraphale popping a chocolate into his mouth, a blissful moan escaping, before blushing lightly and shyly thanking Crowley for the gift._

Sulphur hung in the air, the roar of the fire, and the demons huddled behind him as Beelzebub beckoned him forward with a pointed finger.

_Aziraphale’s laughter..._

He looked down from the cliff. The Pool of Sacrilege. Where fallen angels were reborn, where humans had the last remnants of goodness seared away. Dancing and twisting before him, the flames where Crawly himself had struggled out of, a blasphemous birth.

_Aziraphale’s smile..._

He spread out his arms, head held high.

_Aziraphale’s kiss..._

Crowley had once made the stars. They were gathered now, bright and beautiful to behold in his hand. He balled them into a fist, tinier, and tinier, and tinier, until they were no bigger than a mustard seed. Tucked deep into his heart, untraceable. Heaven could not find it.

Hell could not touch it.

He wobbled for one moment, a hollow, barren thing, before he stepped off the cliff, wings outstretched.

He was falling.

Falling.

Falling.

The first time Crowley had Fallen, he had screamed the entire way down. Anguish. Begging for mercy. Crying for his Mother, oh it hurt, it hurt, he hadn’t meant to, he wouldn’t do it again, just one more chance.

This time, Crowley did not scream.

_Britain, 1965_

The bell tolled twelve times, an endless echo across the shadowy grounds, tucked behind overgrown trees. The lights of the village were lost in this place, fallen prey to the thick fog and grey stone that had borne witness to endless human misery.

A black shape emerged, silent, dark, save for the wink of cigarette embers. The demon Crowley was still, yellow eyes watching, and waiting. The priest had been easy to sway. The old, simpering fool. Tithe money pocketed, to be spent on booze and women. No Christmas tidings for the needy this year.

A heartbeat sang in his ears, steady as the waves of the ocean. He had not heard that heartbeat for many years, a thrumming reassurance of life and pristine purity. There was no time to dwell on it, pushed aside, until it was nothing more than a faint press against his temple.

The silence was broken by the roar of an approaching engine, headlights flickering three times to let Crowley know of their arrival. Crowley had barely lifted a finger before they tripped over themselves, revelling in their greed. Power, such power. 300 pounds to keep their silence, sworn to take it to the grave.

Perhaps that was the right idea. Dead men told no tales, after all. A faulty brake, a careless driver. Easy.

A quiver in his heart, the size of a mustard seed, pleading and tugging at him. Something beautiful, something filled with softness; blue skies and ancient texts. A gold thread, seeking and turning until it found its mate, the heartbeat soaring back to the forefront, _tat-tat-tat_, a gentle reminder, a call to go back home.

Not now. Not yet. This had to be done.

The heartbeat grew louder, faster. Crowley took a deep drag, patience worn thin. Bloody humans, dawdling, wasting his precious time. The holiness pungent, Crowley could hardly bear it even from this distance.

But, the headlights switched back on, the car turning around, and Crowley dropped his cigarette in surprise. “Hey! Get back here, you useless pricks!” Anger surged through him, the heartbeat shrill, a deafening thunder.

“You have some nerve, Crowley.”

He turned. Slow. A high-pitched whine from deep inside, slick with seething rage. Hereditary enemies, or so he had been told.

He turned, and it was over.

A supernova exploding in his chest, the mustard seed blooming to life and sending the stars hurtling back through him, unrelenting and powerful, even after being squashed and folded and hidden away. Millions of blinding lights, seeking out what was rightfully, eternally theirs. Trailing down well worn paths, antidote to the vile, poisonous darkness, all consuming.

Crowley’s knees nearly buckled, and he only held himself upright by the hood of his car, filled up and overpowered in an instant.

“Aziraphale.” The word cracked, a faint whisper.

Four days since he had been dumped back on Earth, drenched in renewed malevolence, strict instructions for it to never happen again. Cradling his plan, Ligur’s image branded into his skull. And now here was Aziraphale, destroying everything, ethereal and beautiful, with red-rimmed eyes and sallow cheeks.

“Care to explain yourself?” Visceral pain, sharp, despite the curtness. A battle raged on in Crowley’s heart. He knew who would emerge victorious, who always emerged victorious.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was still warped, saturated in the unholy fire, and Aziraphale flinched. He forced himself upright, eyes roving in the dark for who might be watching. Aziraphale could not be here, far too dangerous, his plan more urgent than ever before.

“What am I...” He trailed off in disbelief, staring at Crowley, all those decades stretching before them, mocking them. A step forward and Crowley took a step back, despite aching to reach out, to feel soft skin against his own once more. He couldn’t, not like this, Aziraphale should not touch him like _this_.

“Two and a half years, Crowley. I spent-” his voice broke, and he cleared his throat loudly, struggling to carry on. Another piece of Crowley fell victim to the countless stars. “I spent waiting for you. I kept thinking you were-were... And now, I find you at some church with a group of humans, planning this foolish, _deadly_ caper?!”

Crowley inhaled sharply, squaring his shoulders, even as everything unspooled within him, the light chasing out every dark crevice and shadowy intent. He knew. The one thing he had wanted to avoid, and Aziraphale had found out anyway. “I needed those humans. I _needed_ them!” Panic bubbled up, a violent bile, skin itching, tempted to tear it off. “Because you made it very clear that you wouldn’t-”

“Because it’s _dangerous_!” And there they were, St. James Park all over again, dropped between them and releasing its toxic fumes, just as potent, just as fatal, as all those centuries ago. “Holy water will destroy you! And after you-you forced me back to my shop-”

“Because Hell was coming!” The war of wills still waged in Crowley’s heart, Hell would not give way so easily, not after his baptism of fire. “Dangerous, you want to talk about dangerous. If they had seen you-”

“I asked you to trust me.” Aziraphale took another step forward. Crowley caught a whiff of his cologne, still the same, so much of his willpower wobbling, the urge to fall into Aziraphale’s arms nearly consuming him. “You could have just talked to me, and we could have figured something out, I could have protected you.”

“_I don’t need your protection!_”

Hell’s final hurrah, clashed together with infernal pride, a venomous hiss, even as the darkness sank further and further beneath the sea of moon and stars. Aziraphale was staring at him, wide-eyed, and Crowley should pause, a moment, just one. This wasn’t how he had wanted it to go, how he had planned, but the words wouldn’t stop. “What I _need _is holy water, and I’m going to get it.”

There was a long, suffocating silence. Aziraphale mere feet in front of him, still impossibly far away, staring at Crowley as if seeing him for the first time. He should apologize, hit the reset button. Aziraphale, this was _Aziraphale_. Who had kept the last vestiges of light alive in his heart even as Hastur and Ligur carved away at him. He shut his eyes, a breath, another, but when he opened them Aziraphale was gone.

“Fuck, _fuck!_” It was all too much. Shaken and stripped bare, emotions strung out and forced into place, his body still carrying the scars of his punishment. He nearly stumbled into his car, every intention of going to the bookshop and setting things right, when the church doors opened.

Aziraphale strode towards him, a thermos in his grasp, adorned with something suspiciously like tartan. Stopping before he got close, eyes suspiciously wet, piercing what was left of Crowley’s fragile heart.

“You promised you’d come back for me.”

Hell was at last sliding fully away, forced out and pooling around his feet, no match, never any match for the countless stars etched back into Crowley’s soul. He sank against the hood of his car, the cold steel a familiar comfort, guilt worming in his gut.

“I was. After I got this. I_ need__ed_ this. For... for us.” Aziraphale had to understand, surely he must, what Crowley had endured, what he _had_ to do to come back to him, to keep his promise. Boiling sulphur that had burned and burned and nearly snatched away everything he held dear, focusing on keeping the little mustard seed tucked away from the corrupting flames.

“What did they do to you, Crowley?” And oh, did Crowley want to tell him, did he want to sink into Aziraphale’s embrace. Aziraphale’s lips were trembling, voice steeped in melancholy, but Crowley couldn’t, he couldn’t be weak, never, never.

“Doesn’t matter. It’s over now.”

Something seemed to deflate in Aziraphale, face crumpling, a hard swallow. His steps were slow and deliberate, placing the thermos beside Crowley, careful not to touch him. Foreboding settled over Crowley, the sickening sensation of careening over a cliff, jagged rocks below, powerless to stop it.

“Crowley.” He inhaled a shuddering breath, moving away now, further and further. Crowley’s hands twitched, but he was frozen. “These last twenty years have been,” tears slid down his cheeks, Crowley’s throat growing smaller and smaller, “well, they’ve been the happiest years of my life. But, I can’t- I _can’t_ go through this again. If Hell comes for you-”

“They won’t. Cuba will never happen again. That’s the whole point of this.” He gestured to the thermos, staring at Aziraphale, who was rocking back on his heels, chewing his lip, and Crowley could scarcely breathe. Ribs constricting, this couldn’t be happening, they had come so fucking far.

“You don’t know that,” he whispered, still not looking at Crowley, fixated on his twisting hands. This was worse than St. James Park, so much worse. Crowley would give anything for Aziraphale’s anger, he could work with anger, knew it well. But this, this grief, raw and stricken, puncturing every word, he couldn’t respond, a slow moving car wreck, nothing surviving.

“I can’t have a hand in your destruction.”

The world was spinning rapidly, violently. Crowley could not hold on, fingers sliding, slick with sweat, and he could only stare. “Aziraphale-”

But, Aziraphale was stepping back again, and again, a growing, aching chasm between them, no bridge big enough to ever connect them again. “I’m sorry, Crowley. But, I can’t...”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, turning his back to Crowley, an image that had taunted Crowley since their hands first clasped together. It was happening now, this was real, Aziraphale walking down the path and into the shadows until Crowley could see him no more.

Gone.

Crowley’s knees gave out, slumping further against his car, the one last thing he had, the thermos emanating holiness against his skin. Alone, alone in the shadows, the church staring down at him, accusatory, triumphant.

This couldn’t be real. Any minute now, Aziraphale would come back. Realize his mistake. Cup his face, a gentle touch, loving, loving, he had been so fucking sure. A kiss, another, surely he would, would not leave Crowley, after all he had done, only for him, for him, _for him!_

He sat. The night wore on. Silent. Memories, vivid, sharp, too loud, too much, and still Crowley could not move, staring into the bleak, gaping nothing. Nothing again, the nothingness in Hell, nothingness on Earth, he was nothing, he had always known.

Aziraphale was true to his word. He always had been. An angel, to the bitter, fucking end.

He wanted to scream.

But, no sound would come.

_USA, 1969_

Night had fallen, and a nation was riveted. Around the continent, around the globe, millions of people glued to their televisions, these newfangled inventions that had altered the course of humanity in ways not yet fully understood.

Air stale in the too tiny room, gaudy paintings lopsided, itchy blankets tossed aside, soaked with alcohol. Bottles, and bottles, and more bottles still littered the ground, cigarette butts illuminated by the flickering screen, the only light among the shadows.

Sometime during the night, Crowley had fallen to the ground, and there he remained, slumped against the bed, scotch dribbling down his lips and onto his jacket. Walter Cronkite’s dulcet tones his only company, a frayed thread of reality.

He was part of something, something few had thought possible. Hell and Heaven with all their blasted miracles and aloof superiority, they could not match these humans, their ingenuity, their boldness to dream. God had imbued creativity in all Her creations, an everlasting gift, a taste of the Divine. It remained in humans alone now, demons and angels, oh so similar despite their rhetoric, too good for imagination, they had decided.

Aziraphale hadn’t. He had imagination. Soaked in it, all his books, his little worlds splashed over the pages, hours and hours spent with the majesty of humans, the best of them.

Crowley once had imagination. He once had a lot of things.

“That was my idea, Walter,” Crowley slurred, a hand gesturing to the man before him. “You-you’ve got me to thank for that moon. You’re welcome, no, no, s’alright.” Another swig, another bottle tumbling out of his grip and onto the carpet.

A thermos laid against his chest, rising and falling with every shallow breath. Idle fingers stroked the lid, tempting, tempting, but he didn’t dare, one last promise to keep among his ruins of failure. “See, angel. See, ’m here, ’m still here.”

No answer came. There was only Walter.

He should tell Aziraphale. Perhaps he was wondering. Crowley was not in London. Maybe he had gone to his flat, apologies on his lips and longing in his heart, and found that Crowley was not there. Yes, yes, he _should_. Reassurance, even now, he owed that to Aziraphale, surely that at least would not be refused.

Bleary eyes struggled to focus on the numbers, the telephone cord somehow much longer than it rightfully should be, cradled in Crowley’s lap as Walter excitedly narrated history in the making. It rang,

and rang,

and rang,

and rang...

“I am afraid we’re most definitely closed.”

Crowley’s breath hitched; for a moment he couldn’t go through with it. The tired voice, thick with something, (sleep, was Aziraphale sleeping now?) so achingly familiar, a glimmering light at the end of an endless tunnel, had so many years passed so quickly?

“Angel.” There was no point in hiding the agony. Mind a haze, years upon years of bitter liquid to quell the memories, a futile exercise, all he had left. “Or-or nah, nah you don’ want me to call you that anymore, huh. A-Aziraphale.”

Walter was still speaking, breathless amazement, the voice at the other end of the line had fallen silent, save for heavy breathing. Crowley could picture him, crystal clear, close enough to touch, long curls and dazzling eyes, and that awful beige suit he clung to throughout the decades.

“D’you know what’s-what’s happening? S’history, ang- Aziraphale. You heard? Big day today. Clever, clever little humans.”

“Crowley.” He sounded pained, reverberating through the Earth and straight into Crowley’s chest, a twist of the blade, and Crowley leaned into it, deserved it.

“Landing on the moon! I made that, I did that, did you know that?” The simulation’s image was sideways, that miraculous machine only humans could piece together. He clutched the thermos tighter to himself, something warm and wet sliding down his cheek, what was that?

“I know.”

“And-and you said we would watch it together! ‘Member that? ‘Member? When they launched Sputnik we said, we said we were gonna watch it together. Our humans, look at them go.” Aching, everything ached, every limb heavy and filled with woe and Crowley could not keep upright, could not breathe.

“I should go.” He was leaving again, and again, there were no second chances, not with Aziraphale. Crowley choked, on what he wasn’t sure, his cheeks were wet, the ground was wet, it was warm and stuffy, perhaps he was in Hell.

“’M gonna watch it.” There were more voices joining Walter’s now, beamed down from above, more endearing than God, and Crowley longed to touch them, these humans, warm flesh and dizzy dreams and full of love, love for what he had created. “Just wanted to let you know that-that ‘m still here. Gonna go join them though, okay Aziraphale? Okay? Up there in the stars...”

“Where’s the holy water?” Aziraphale sounded strange. Fading from his ears, a distant echo, a forgotten song. The phone slid from Crowley’s grasp, fixated on flickering screen. Yearning to join them, to fill this empty void, gaping and endless. “Crowley? Crowley!”

Once there had been no Crowley. No Crawly. He could not remember his old name, snuffed out from the world like everything else, dust behind him as he Fell, through his swirling nebulas and magnificent creations. A moon for the Earth, because nothing should be alone, a companion until the universe was no more.

He shut his eyes, imagined he was back up there, stars upon his skin instead of freckles. He would dance as he once had, and maybe this time Aziraphale would join him.

He did not notice the phone shaking, groaning under the weight of something, breathing wet and ragged. There were shoes in front of him. Brown. He touched them, felt the smooth leather, cracked with age.

“Give-give me the thermos.” Crowley clutched it tighter to himself. Breath caught again, eyes moved back to the screen. They were close now. Any minute. Humans would touch what he had brought into existence. Not God. _Him._

“Crowley.” The voice cracked. Crowley refused to look. Looking made it real. Shards of his heart, Aziraphale had them all, nothing left to give. His lips tasted of salt, he licked them, wet, the image was black and grey now, grainy, unclear, but Crowley knew where they were, could still picture it clearly.

“You left.” Naked truth, a hideous thing, unseemly, but what did it matter anymore? Hands now reached for the thermos, they were quivering, they looked thinner than before. Crowley shrank further into himself. “Not gonna use it. Said I wouldn’t. Just want to-to be up there with them.”

“_Crowley_.” The voice definitely sounded strange. Instincts urged him upright, to comfort, that was his job. He remained in place, an unwanted beast, tossed aside, eyes only for humans. He must have spoken aloud, for the voice continued. “You are not _unwanted_, goodness, Crowley, do you have... do you have even the faintest idea...”

He must be far into the stars, or far into the bottle, words falling from his lips he had not intended. “You left. I jumped into the-the Pool of S-Sacrilege for you, so they would let me back, and-and you _left_.”

Something sat beside him, knees creaking, a splash of beige and Crowley’s eyes snapped back to the television. Armstrong was talking, and so was Aldrin, oh they were brave, Crowley should visit them, just to see the moon-dust in their eyes. “I didn’t want to leave. Especially after... after I thought I had lost you forever. I encountered that other demon they sent in your place.”

“See! See! Needed holy water. Ligur he-he knew. Knew what you looked like! S’dangerous, Aziraphale.” Thermos still in his hands, this damned thermos, worse than his Fall, damned to do wrong, even when trying to do good. “Had to protect you. Had to.” Vision blurry, but he refused to look away from the grainy image. “Couldn’t see you until-until I had... could kill that fucker...”

Armstrong had appeared. He was descending the ladder. Crowley struggled upright, breathless, hands scrabbling for support. Something steadied him. A sob stuck in his throat, he tried to swallow it. He couldn’t, he couldn’t.

“Crowley, this...” a struggle for words, nothing ever defined, too risky, too dangerous. Easier to simply drift, to let things unfold, careful steps, hidden hearts, even when fused together. “_This_ will never work if you don’t let me protect you, too. I meant what I said. I can’t... I can’t have a hand in Hell destroying you. I couldn’t bear it. You always being the one to risk it all... Cuba will happen again, holy water or not.”

Armstrong was at the foot of the ladder now. One step, one step and he and Crowley would be bound together until the end of time.

“We’re in this together. Let me be there for you. Let me._ Please.” _

Crowley was falling.

But, this time, there was something there to catch him.

Strong arms wrapped around his spindly frame, cocooning him, every inch claimed, protected. He shouldn’t. This was not right. This was not what they did. He had no energy to fight it. A gentle touch, loving, no one had touched him in so many years. Not there to inflict pain. There to soothe. To trail over every limb, a steady dance of smooth fingertips.

_That’s one small step for man..._

Wings emerged. White. Glorious. Threaded with gold and hints of silver. Enclosing them, no shadows could overcome the holy light. Holiness at his back, and holiness at his chest, and holiness at his sides, and he only had eyes for Armstrong, there on the moon, his moon, his.

_One giant leap..._

Crowley was shaking. Head light, woozy, cheeks wet. Arms were wrapped around him, the back of his neck was wet, too. He dug his nails into his forehead, clenched his jaw together. Hastur and Ligur had taken, Beelzebub had taken, everyone had taken. A pile of loose threads all unravelled and torn to bits. A sob escaped, lips kissed his head, rocked back and forth, gentle, gentle.

_For mankind._

And Crowley finally screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was looking at my outline, I realized the amount of material I had planned was way, way too much for just six chapters, so you may have noticed the amount of chapters has been bumped up to eight. Though, I daresay I don't think there'll be _too_ much grumbling over two extra chapters? ;)
> 
> I'm once again completely stunned at the response this fic has gotten. I can only say a huge thank you to everyone who left kudos, comments, bookmarked and subscribed. I'm grateful to each and every one of you. You all make writing this story an absolute blast.


	4. Chapter 4

_Monaco, 1970_

There was always music in a place like this.

Songs drifted in with the nightly breeze, steady with the gentle waves lapping against the boat. Those fleeting human dreams made immortal, timeless. They wound around Crowley, whispered in his ear, soothing, soft, it was all going to be alright.

Wings outstretched to their full glory, moonlight peaking in through the open window, this little sliver of impossible paradise. Voices joined the swell of noise and he could picture them perfectly. Their sin, their triumphs, their never-ending ambitions. Spilling out onto the streets under glittering lights and promises of a better tomorrow.

Focusing on the humans, on the music, as his feathers twitched with dreadful anticipation. A soft sigh of admiration behind him, and Crowley shivered.

There had been hands held tightly together. There had been kisses stolen under drops of rain. Unspoken apologies, tears brushed away, aching, aching hearts crying out for another in the darkness. And still, Crowley had nearly refused Aziraphale. His request, tinged with uncertainty, with a wasted decade of fear and Hell still hanging over them. A hand on his back, pressed against his shoulder blade, longing to touch, to push the boundaries ever further.

_I haven’t seen your wings since... well, since that night at my bookshop. I’d very much like to see them again, darling. _

His mind raged its rejection. His body silently slid into the bedroom.

A moment of hesitation, tense limbs, second-guesses. 5000 years had come and gone, and they had never done this before. What had possessed Aziraphale so suddenly Crowley could not be sure. What had possessed him to save a pile of prophetic books all those years ago? To extend his hand just that once more, and have Aziraphale reach out in return?

Perhaps the same reason they found themselves here now, forgotten memos to Hell half-filled out among empty bottles and sugar spun sweets. Not here for business. Not here by coincidence. Choice, deliberate. Humans called it a vacation. Aziraphale called it a treat.

Crowley called it a second chance.

Seven years was a long time to waste these days.

Fingers traced the edges, delicate, careful, bone and feather seamlessly blended together. His pride and joy, the few offerings from Hell he had any fondness for. A sharp inhale, Aziraphale heard it, paused, before continuing his journey. Up along the radius, towards the outer vane, nothing overlooked, nothing neglected.

“Goodness, you are beautiful, Crowley.”

Forbidden words, it was all forbidden, but they had disposed of such notions long ago. The fingers trailed downwards now, ghosting over the sensitive feathers, a spark of warmth from deep inside. He fought against it; even now, old habits die hard. There had been other hands in his feathers, yanking and tearing with glee, stripped bare over and over. His back had been turned then, too.

“Not supposed to find me beautiful. I’m a demon, remember?” Bitter words, cutting his tongue, blood running down his chin and onto clenched fists. All forbidden and they could not forget, the world would never let them forget. Eyes glanced over to the memos; they were keeping track ever more closely since his return. Not enough to skate by on the ingenuity of human destruction.

Aziraphale did not pause this time, still trailing over his feathers, straightening one there, plucking a bent one here. His other hand was there now, just as soft, just as attentive. A lump crawled into Crowley’s throat, a bundle of pleasure, he should not dwell on it.

Oh, how he wanted to dwell on it.

“I know what you are.” Something else laced there, those seven years weighed down with eternity. Crowley nearly stopped this, put an end to doors being pried open with keys that had been freely given away. Something kept him rooted to the spot, unfurling inside, warmth spreading up to flushed cheeks. Aziraphale was not like _them_. Not ever like them.

Perhaps it was their faces looking away from each other. Easy to pretend, even for a moment, that words spoken would not be heard. Or, perhaps it was those seven years, a man on the moon, a flickering television, a guttural scream. Aziraphale halted, hesitation drifting over the back of Crowley’s neck.

“I have to admit, for a moment there, at the church... I thought Hell had succeeded. I thought... well, I had lost you.”

Raw, unvarnished truth, and guilt bloomed in Crowley’s chest. They had not talked about it, content as always to bury the past with all their other ghosts. Crowley couldn’t forget the way Aziraphale had looked at him in those few seconds. Wide-eyed. Fearful. He had never looked at Crowley with fear before.

Crowley never wanted Aziraphale to look at him like that again.

The hands had resumed, deeper now, where downy feathers lay, tucked away from the world, soft edges and innocence. Goosebumps pricked up his arm, a curious, delicious sensation that cascaded over his chest and into his gut. Crowley’s eyes shut of their own accord, and this time he did not fight it.

A new decade, a second chance.

“You hadn’t.” A quiet confession, but it was there, for Aziraphale to hear, to be reassured. Lightness overcoming him as Aziraphale roamed further still, every bit of resolve crumbling, muscles unwinding. An extension of his soul, laid bare, only for one.

“I know, Crowley.” Equally quiet, but filled with conviction, a tinge of fondness. “You always come back to me.” A hand dared to crawl up his neck, coil around the thick curls. Boneless, he was boneless now, lips parted, head tilted back. Aziraphale was here, he was not alone; drunk on matted carpets and lost in delirium. “Sometimes I wonder...”

“Wonder what?” He was breathless, a pool of liquid, unspooled, but bound together still. The voice that raged and screamed was distant now, easy to ignore, powerless. Fingers on his scalp, massaging little circles, gentle. It made his eyes sting, made his throat constrict. He had resisted this for far too long.

Aziraphale did not answer and Crowley was too lost in the stars to dwell on it for long. A soft sound escaped from him, but shame felt very far away. Aziraphale captured it in those deft hands, kept safe and secure, lips pressed against the back of his neck, he swore he felt a confession be mouthed.

Time was meaningless, and Crowley was consumed entirely. Every inch caressed, rejuvenated under the guidance of something soft and holy. A hand running along his spine; for a moment Crowley even considered telling Aziraphale the gruesome truth underneath his jacket. The raucous sounds of laughter had dwindled, and Crowley could sense Aziraphale in front of him now, eyes flickering open for a heartbeat before pulling him down for a kiss.

Gentle and languid, a mouth opening up without fanfare and letting Crowley’s tongue flick inside. There was still so much time to make up for, thousands of apologies would never be enough. They had kissed like this before, laid down upon Aziraphale’s sofa, arms wrapped around each other, stale scotch still on Crowley’s breath. Needing to touch, to taste, to reacquaint with what had once been lost. Crowley’s thumb rubbed along Aziraphale’s cheek, plump and supple, smile lines in all the right places.

They kissed, unhurried, reclaiming time for themselves. Kissing, and kissing, hands in each other’s hair, stroking and tugging. Tugging again. And again.

And something was changing.

Reassurance morphing into desire, oh this was new. Urgency now, ferocity as their tongues rolled together, hands gripping faces, a moan into Crowley’s mouth. This was _new_. All that warmth from before transformed into an inferno; it had always existed for Crowley, always hovered on the fringes of every lingering touch and lingering kiss. He had not dared to indulge, to jinx what he had unthinkingly been granted.

But, it roared to life now, and Crowley could not ignore the passionate way Aziraphale was kissing him, the gasps for air as they broke apart before pulling each other close once more. Body warm and flush as a summer day, Aziraphale just as demanding, hands running down Crowley’s chest. He yanked at Aziraphale’s bow tie, fumbling fingers, mind speeding ahead of him in a frenzy and-

A hand came up and grabbed his own.

“Crowley, wait.” He was panting, red cheeked and glorious. Staring at Crowley, filled with longing, eyes conflicted. He brought a hand up to his cheek, to reassure, they could go slow, Crowley could wait, wait forever if he had to. “I... we_._..”

And Aziraphale’s eyes flicked upwards.

Oh.

It had been years, decades even, since Crowley had seen those eyes seek solace from above. _We’re in this together._ Two stars orbiting each other, pulled closer and closer, neither willing to budge, until they were indiscernible to the naked eye.

Or, so he had thought.

But, of course, there were limits. There were always limits. And could Crowley truly fault him? To throw away his Divinity for carnal pleasures, something like this, that transcended simple kissing and hands seeking each other out. Even as jealousy welled up, destroying all the fragile beauty from before, he couldn’t blame him.

Falling because of Crowley. He could not bear it. Not ever.

“S’alright, angel. S’alright.” Aziraphale was looking at him, a helpless, lost expression that compelled Crowley to shoulder the burden once more, a quick kiss to his knuckles that rang hollow. Aziraphale did not belong in Hell. The tendrils from the Pool of Sacrilege still coiled around his heart, a searing reminder, he could never, _would_ never, ask that of him.

“It’s-” But, Crowley waved him away, wings pulled in, turning back to the memos to Hell, the feel of Aziraphale’s racing heart under his fingertips impossible to forget. Swallowing the bitter, horrible truth, just like always, an acrid, poison filled cup he was condemned to drink from over and over.

Angel. Demon.

Hereditary enemies.

And the world would not let them forget.

“S’alright. Don’t worry about it. Look, these memos aren’t gonna fill out themselves. Grab us some more wine, will you?”

But, Aziraphale did not move towards the little fridge. He made his way out to the deck instead, gazing out at the endless sea, and remained there until the morning dawn broke across the horizon.

_Britain, 1978_

It never ceased to amaze Crowley, not even after all the millennia that had passed, Aziraphale’s ability to argue while absorbed in a book.

A lazy afternoon, a stickiness heavy in the air, despite the open window. The bustle of London soothing and familiar; children chattering, teenagers gossiping, jostling and moving and living and breathing. Crowley spread eagle on the well-worn couch, a sheen of sweat visible on his chest, gazing over at Aziraphale, proper and poised in his beloved chair.

“It’s a preposterous invention.”

He hadn’t moved a muscle, eyes never leaving the page, and Crowley was tempted to yank the book from his grasp. He couldn’t remember how they had gotten here, somewhere between reminiscing over Japanese tea ceremonies, and arguing over the true Renaissance Man. But, there they were, both dug in, a dance they knew by heart.

“It is _not_. It’s brilliant! I’m getting one myself as soon as they release it, it’s only a matter of time, angel. The technology’s already there, as soon as they fine-tune it, it’ll be just like cars and airplanes. Change the world.”

A bored flick of the page, eyes still racing over words from dead men’s hands. Layers upon layers, even in the sweltering sun, the tight little bow tie bobbing against his neck with every swallow. “The phones we have now do their job perfectly well. What use is there for a phone to take with you everywhere? Pure silliness.”

Crowley was on his feet, limbs begging for relief from laying in one place for so long. He circled Aziraphale, could see his eyes still for just a moment, a bated breath, waiting for a kiss, a caress, and Crowley complied with the silent request, burying his lips in the mess of curls. “Not everyone is a century behind, Aziraphale.”

He bit down on a smirk as Aziraphale huffed, sauntering towards his record collection. “What the fuck was it that you called that Queen song the other day? Bop-bop?”

“Bebop, darling, because that’s what it was.”

“Right, right. _Bebop_.” He flipped through the records, _tsking_ the entire time, determined to get Aziraphale out of that blasted chair. “Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Bach, of course, how typical.” A pause, an eyebrow quirked in unmasked surprise. “The Righteous Brothers? That’s awfully _modern_.”

“You were the one insisting I was stuck in the past, not I.” He still did not deign to glance his way, and Crowley knew he couldn’t let such a rare opportunity pass him by. A snap of his fingers and the record creaked to life, Crowley holding out his hand to Aziraphale, forked tongue darting between shiny teeth.

“Dance with me, angel.”

At long last, Aziraphale met his gaze, a crease between his brows, hesitation and excuses on his lips. He could see the unspoken questions, why Crowley suddenly felt this need, another step, another boundary crossed. Crowley could not say himself, only that it had lodged itself in his mind, unwilling to be shaken loose and tossed aside. Dancing with Aziraphale. Was such a request so taboo?

There was unmistakable longing there, eyes drifting up the length of Crowley’s arm to his unguarded face, inviting, tempting, sunglasses lost somewhere in the chaos of books and memories. “Angels don’t dance.”

He wanted to say that angels did not kiss demons, either. Did not braid their hair, or tuck themselves into their arms until their racing hearts marched in perfect harmony. Too close for comfort, and he pushed it aside like always, pulling Aziraphale to his feet. “Just one dance. Our little secret.”

Their hands slotted together, Aziraphale’s faint protests crumbling into fine dust, a tilt of his head and the tender notes of _Unchained Melody_ filled the shop with a swell. Uncertainty in every step, as though touching for the very first time. Crowley’s hand at his waist, and Aziraphale’s at his shoulder, too loose, too rigid, a foot squashed, a table knocked into.

The novelty had never worn off, even now, decades and decades of firsts and milestones behind them. Crowley drank Aziraphale in as warmth radiated from his shoulder into his aching limbs. Every crack in his lips, every fleck of brown and green in his eyes. Smoother now, a rhythm found together, and there, at last, a tiny smile curving at Aziraphale’s mouth.

Closer and closer, noses touching, gentle little kisses, dipped in sweetness, more alluring than the most seductive caress. Contentment, a rare feat for a demon. Crowley could live like this. Aziraphale here, in so many ways, more than he had ever dared to dream. It did not matter what lines were drawn in the sand, what cold truths still stood in their way.

This was enough.

It would always be enough.

The air suddenly shimmered, time and space collapsing in on itself, reality bent to some unseen will. Something here now, bold and endless, imbued with righteous fire, thrown into every corner and crevice with its holy presence.

“Aziraphale.”

Thousands of years since he had heard that voice, the distinct musical lilt, wind chimes in the evening breeze. The same voice that had cast him out of Heaven, ignoring his pleas for mercy, down, down, down, the barest hint of guilt etched on that beautiful face.

Michael.

Time at a standstill, eyes wide, heart hammering in his throat, fuck, _fuck_! Centuries of preparation, calculated steps, plans and plans and back-up plans, and now the moment had come. Not a nightmare, not a hypothetical. Aziraphale’s lips were white, he had stopped breathing, staring at Crowley with unadulterated terror.

Snap himself away, and she would hear it, would sense the lack of other-worldly presence that for now Aziraphale might cover. Stuck in front of this roving predator, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, their deepest fears coming to pass. She had not spotted them yet, somewhere in the front of the shop, but time was slipping through their fingers. She would come, and she would see.

“C-coming!” Crowley squeezed his hand, Aziraphale’s pounding heart deafening in his ears, no, no, not yet. Not today. He had not crawled his way out of Hell, lash marks still stinging his flesh, only to be caught _today__. _Aziraphale smoothed down his jacket, deep breaths, deep breaths, one last, long look at Crowley before walking to his doom.

The music still crooned, Crowley tucking himself into a corner, unwilling to even blink. Could she know? Is that what brought her here, now of all times, smashing their precarious happiness into tiny, irreparable fragments? Mind lurching from one misstep to another; they had been careful, so fucking careful, with Hell breathing down his neck, with the memories of Cuba still piercing their flesh.

He struggled to hear over the soft melody, muscles rigid, ready to spring. He would not simply roll over and die, no, not now, not after everything. He dared to inch closer, silent, deadly, two hearts fighting to be heard, but he only cared for one.

He would not let that heart stop again.

“...received your letter, and I must say, we are disappointed in your request.”

“My letter?” Nervous, he could hear it dripping from every syllable, could imagine him twitching, his smile stretched too big and too tight. “I... I wrote that over-over 30 years ago. Why are you-”

“It had to be processed, of course, Aziraphale.” Sharp words, poisoned barbs, and Aziraphale was being reeled into whatever trap she had laid. Clever then and clever now. Crowley had trusted her once upon a time, to understand, to hear him out. He would not make that mistake twice.

Aziraphale was still talking, words morphed, lost in the music, something about hoping she understood. Michael would never understand, Crowley knew that well.

Aziraphale didn’t.

But, Crowley had been preparing for this a long time.

A long, slow breath. A demon she had made, and a demon she would meet. Hellfire cracked up his arms, redder than a dying star, an ecstasy like no other. Senses honed and sharpened, those memories normally sealed tight an accelerant to his fury. He would not let her do to Aziraphale what she had done to him.

Never.

He was ready. If this was the moment, so be it then.

“If you are still sure of your request, then we’ll take it into consideration, Aziraphale. Your comfort is important to us.”

“Oh, thank you, Michael. Thank you so very much.”

The air shimmered, and a peace settled over the shop, Aziraphale’s heart slowing, slowing, he could taste his relief even from here. Relief, he should be relieved too. Crisis averted, by the skin of their teeth, but no matter. They had lived to see another day.

But, Michael’s face swam in his vision, triumphant and powerful as his Grace had been snatched away. Hellfire an intoxicating friend, difficult to quell, her fault he was like this, he could not forget. Too close, too close, he had missed his chance to repay the favour. She would be back, he could feel it in his very essence. She would be back, and they might not be so lucky.

Focus, focus. Aziraphale was here, he was _safe_. Nothing else mattered. Another breath, slow and careful. Aziraphale. Think of Aziraphale. Crowley did not want him to see him like this, another reminder, another ugly truth.

Aziraphale came around the corner, and he was... smiling. Not from relief, not even from seeing Crowley. No, it was genuine. One that made eyes glitter, made splendid smile lines crinkle, perfection, utter perfection, that only Aziraphale could accomplish.

Euphoric.

Because of Heaven. Because of _Michael_. Euphoric. The angel who had smote him, would have smote Aziraphale had they been caught and he was _euphoric!_

Crowley could only stare, something brutal and harsh bubbling up. A split second, and a lifetime unfolded, dizzying in its speed. Their eyes met, trailed downwards, matching betrayal, matching outrage.

“Is that _Hellfire_?!”

There was no denying what was there in front of them, and he was in no mood to sugarcoat for Aziraphale, not now, not with that smile that before was reserved only for Crowley. He did not look away, drawing himself up to his full height.

“Yes.”

Silence, the kind filled with white, shrieking noise, chests rising and falling, unsure who would blink first. But, even now, with jagged anger clawing down his throat, Crowley forced the Hellfire away. Too dangerous, too risky. He would not let even a spark near Aziraphale, no matter what.

“You were going to kill her.” Aziraphale stared at him, an inscrutable expression despite the wide eyes and slack mouth. He could not understand, could not get that damned smile out of his mind. They had almost been caught, and Aziraphale was beaming as if Michael had given them her blessing.

“Yes. And?” Clipped sentences, perhaps that was wrong, after so much, so many close calls, hearts shattered all throughout the 60s. How could Aziraphale fault him? Thirty years together and he knew the risks, knew them well, and he dared to act as if Crowley had _sinned_? “She nearly caught us!”

“But, she didn’t! You can’t _kill_her! She’s-she’s still my family!”

Family. Even after everything they had done, everything they had shared. A small voice reminded him that Aziraphale was still an angel, still very much on Heaven’s side. He had never promised Crowley he wouldn’t be.

It stung nonetheless.

“You were the one who said you wanted to _protect me,_ too!” Harsh words, unflinchingly in their resentment, and he knew he landed his mark as Aziraphale’s face blanched. “You’re telling me you wouldn’t _kill_ a demon who caught us?”

Aziraphale’s mouth opened. And closed. A heartbeat, a teetering moment as he groped for words, not wanting to look at Crowley. A linchpin, so much resting on his next sentence, Crowley sick at the thought at what cold water Aziraphale might pour over them. “That’s different.”

That’s different.

_Oh._

He _would_ kill a demon to protect Crowley. Always implied, but never spoken, and now, here it was. His eyes spelled out the truth, fierce and scared at what he was willing to do. No denial, even as he obfuscated, a balm against the stinging hurt he had inflicted against Crowley.

Michael was his family. But maybe, just _maybe__,_ Crowley trumped that.

It did not dissipate his ire entirely, but Crowley relented, a step back, a breath expelled. Too close, yanked back from the precipice the both of them, the music now an unwelcome enemy. Aziraphale seemed to sense it; a snap and the record ceased. Silence fell, and Crowley wasn’t sure it was any better.

“What did she want, anyway?”

Aziraphale did not answer right away, smoothing his jacket, drawing his bow tie even tighter around his throat. Distance, still so much distance, those few feet between them. Mere minutes and the world dissolved into nothing, their dance a lifetime ago.

“Acknowledging a request I put in a few decades back. She was actually being very compassionate.” He stared hard at Crowley, and Crowley had to bite back his venom.

“Request, what request? You never told me about that.” Aziraphale didn’t have to reply for Crowley to already see he would not get the truth. His eyes darting away, his mouth twisted between his teeth. A request too holy for demons, apparently, and Crowley had just about had his fill of Heaven today.

“It was nothing special. Hardly important.”

Right.

Glasses snapped back onto his face, jacket buttoned up. Aziraphale had the gall to look crestfallen, and Crowley did not let it sow seeds in his heart, content to lick his wounds a little longer. Perhaps he would kill for Crowley, but thirty years later and secrets were still being kept, still looking down at Crowley from his higher plane.

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Got deeds to do, memos to fill. _Demonic_ things, won’t bother you with the details.”

It all felt sickeningly familiar, him walking away this time, leaving Aziraphale staring at his retreating form. Hadn’t they learned? Hadn’t they fought and bled and cried to stop this from ever happening again? He should turn, he should stay, but his feet carried him regardless.

“Crowley.”

He was halfway to the door when the voice called out, and he stopped. He would not look, still wounded, still thrown off course, but he stopped, just like always.

“Are you sleeping, then?”

A hesitant question, weighing heavily even now, and Crowley nearly crumbled despite himself. He turned, enough to see Aziraphale’s expression, and he softened, just a fraction. Relief there, despite the misery, that he was not the only one thinking to a certain park, to a certain time.

“No, Aziraphale.”

It was enough. Tension thick in the air, but they could breathe, hearts still welded together. Aziraphale nodded once, and Crowley left, eyes flicking above for who might be watching.

Because Aziraphale had been right all those years ago.

Cuba would happen again.

A thermos full of Holy Water and arms full of Hellfire would not be enough to stop it.

_Britain, 1983_

Aziraphale had been gone awhile.

The living room shrouded in comforting shadows, Crowley hidden under a hand-made quilt meant for two, heady with scents from ages long passed. Crumb filled plates scattered about his table, all that remained of the Halloween treats Aziraphale had brought from his shop: _No trick or treaters again this year, I’m afraid. __A shame to let them go to waste._ Sounds of _The Exorcist_ a gentle lull in the background, an ode to Crowley’s favourite holiday, far enough removed from reality to stomach. Sometime during the infamous crucifix scene Aziraphale had wandered off in search of more rum and sweets.

Cozy. Quiet. A night in locked away from the world. Able to pretend, for a few precious hours.

15 minutes had passed. Nothing to worry about, surely. Perhaps Aziraphale was cooing over his plants, thwarting the militant regime he had cultivated the last few years. Perhaps he was stealing more of his daffodils, bright little faces sticking out of his pocket each time they kissed good-bye.

But, the enduring silence was uneasy, fraught with something Crowley could not put his finger on. Memories of Michael still fresh in his mind, no harm in checking, just to be sure, just to be safe. Aziraphale would greet him with a too-knowing smile, an offer to kiss the rum he had been sneaking off his lips, foreheads resting together, breathing each other in, all would be well.

Except, all was not well.

He could see it as soon as Aziraphale came into view. Standing in the halo of his kitchen light, far too still, staring straight ahead, a paper clenched in his fist. He did not acknowledge Crowley, did not even flinch.

“Angel?”

No answer still. His hands were shaking, barely noticeable, but enough that shrill alarm bells sounded in his ears. A golden sigil marked that paper, holiness pungent even from a distance. For a horrifying moment, Crowley thought they had been found out.

“Ypres.”

One word. One word and Crowley was hurtled back four decades, vivid, sharp memories of a church, of humans, of an Aziraphale who had been shattered beyond recognition. He could still taste the smoke, the feel of Aziraphale’s heart, too fast, panic filled, even as Crowley had desperately tried to slow it. He floundered for words, not knowing what was happening, dread flooding through him.

“What about it, angel?” Soft words, soft, soft, trying and failing to capture Aziraphale’s gaze. He slid the paper out of his hands, cradling a bomb, careful, careful now. At the top, Aziraphale’s name, in a language he no longer spoke, and he forced himself to read those damned words from Above.

_In response to your official request (30/05/1940) in regards to being relieved of all duties and assignments pertaining to the human nation BELGIUM:_

_After careful consideration of your reasons given, we hereby regret to inform you that your request has been **denied **on the following grounds:_

_In regards to your official discorporation (22/04/1915), the “**emotional turmoil**” you have outlined has been deemed irrelevant, given that a new, exact replica body was issued, and you were returned to your Station two years later (09/04/1917), _

_Your repeated use of the terms “**death**”, “**dying**”, “**died**” are summarily rejected outright as death is a state reserved exclusively for humans and is not reason enough to fulfill your request,_

_The references to ongoing “**trauma**” and “**nightmares**” have been wholly dismissed after careful study, as such concepts have no relevant application to any ranking of ANGELS._

_As such, your request will not be granted, and no further consideration will be given on the matter. _

_Therefore, we expect you to resume your duties in regards to BELGIUM immediately. Enclosed, you will find an outline of your next miracle, to take place in YPRES, BELGIUM. Failure to complete this assignment within three months (31/01/1984) will result in immediate revocation of your status as GUARDIAN OF THE EASTERN GATE and you will be reassigned to a new Station in HEAVEN. _

The pieces suddenly fell into place, and Crowley had never felt so sickened.

He couldn’t believe the words he had just read. Emotions fighting for dominance, unsure what to think, what to feel. Disgust. Hatred. Rage. He had always known his side was malicious; able to destroy and hurt and make him feel unimaginable pain. That was Hell. Malevolence baked into its very DNA.

But this. _This_. Cruelty wrapped up in the guise of righteousness. Breaking Aziraphale without ever touching him, and _relishing_ in it. Why else send him to Ypres, the very place he had breathed his last breath, and dangle a demotion over his head, throw his nightmares and anguish back in his face.

He could not speak, could only stare at Aziraphale. Sick at the empty look in his eyes, lost and hollow, betrayed by this so-called _family_. Nothing had changed since his Fall. No loyalty among the ranks of Heaven, the purge they had been so convinced would root out the rot had changed _nothing_. He dared to touch his arm, Aziraphale’s skin cold and clammy, diminishing before Crowley’s very eyes.

“I thought they understood.” Even his voice was smaller, a faint whisper, lost in the vastness of Crowley’s tiny kitchen. “When Michael came, I thought she _wanted_ to understand. I was so happy. For once, I thought we connected. That she cared.”

He looked back at the paper, at the strange signature in spidery gold ink that he could not decipher. Hard to swallow the loathing that welled up, he should have ended her when he had the chance. He had sworn to protect Aziraphale from Death, to make sure Hell never made one mark on him.

He had never anticipated it would be Heaven that would strike the killing blow.

Aziraphale finally looked at him, wide, glassy eyes that seemed to unable to recognize Crowley.

“They don’t give a damn about me, do they.”

An instant, tense and taut, before the air snapped. Aziraphale’s placid face cracking and breaking, and Crowley scooped him up without a second thought. Aziraphale protested that he was fine, fine, just fine, crumbling once more in Crowley’s arms, and Crowley would not let a single piece fall to the ground. A snap, and they were in his bedroom, wings shaken out and wrapping around him, soft feathers against his skin. He was here. He was here.

It wasn’t enough. But, it was all Crowley had.

Hot tears splashing against his arm, a sickening replay of history, as if nothing had changed, nothing at all. His fault this had happened in the first place. Heaven’s sadism paled in comparison to his neglect, to leaving Aziraphale to fight a war alone. The guilt, never-ending, worse than the empty void in his heart that once contained his Grace.

“You don’t u-understand.” He pulled Aziraphale closer, his own throat constricted as Aziraphale forced words between his trembling lips. “I’ve tried to go to Belgium, Crowley. I’ve _tried_. I used to l-love Belgium. But, every time... I just see... yellow... everything is yellow... and I can’t breathe...”

His hands clawed at his throat, Crowley gently removed them, kissing the knuckles. Essence bleeding out, darkness wound around his frantic heart. It felt futile, but it had once soothed Aziraphale in the ruins of a bombed out church, and Crowley had to try. _One beat, two, that’s it, angel. _

“They’re right. It was 69 years a-ago. I’m an angel-”

Crowley cut him off, forcing their eyes to meet, ferocity in every word.

“They are _not_ right.” He had to make him understand, he would not let Heaven obliterate what was left of Aziraphale. Out of touch and full of tainted morality. They had never fought and laughed and marvelled at these splendid humans, a taste of a God who had long since vanished.

“I should never have asked for another a-angel to take care of Belgium. But, it was during the War, and I was... I was scared, Crowley. I couldn’t... not again...”

He hated them all. He hated himself. He would sooner soak in the Pool of Sacrilege until the end of time than be responsible for Aziraphale’s pain.

“You are the _bravest_, cleverest bastard I know.” Echoing words from decades past, so much more imbued in them now, all of Crowley, all of him, only for Aziraphale. “Not despite Ypres, _because_ of Ypres. You understand me, Aziraphale? You get it?”

Aziraphale torn and broken, looking at Crowley like he desperately wanted to believe him, but couldn’t. He cradled his face, thumb swiping the steady stream of tears away. He was not good with words, at letting his heart speak freely, and he could only hope his clumsy attempt was enough. “You aren’t weak because of this. You... you _did_ die, and... and it doesn’t matter if it was fucking yesterday or seven decades ago.”

“But... what if it never goes away?”

There it was. The crux of it all. Words that Aziraphale had been toiling over but never dared to speak aloud. Their eyes never broke apart; this was so much worse than during the War. Back then Aziraphale had crumbling walls still in place, even as his heart leaked out, even as it begged to be held securely. There were no walls now, no masks. His worldview torn to shreds, the foundation he rested so much of himself on pulled out from under his feet.

Crowley tightened his essence around his heart, soothing, soothing, so that Aziraphale knew his next words were sincere. “Then it never goes away. And you’re still the bravest, cleverest bastard I know. Doesn’t change a thing how I think about you. Ever.”

Disbelief, but there was hope there, fragile though it was, eyes flicking over Crowley’s face for any signs of deception. A long silence, weighed down and suffocating, hands still clasped tight. A part of him begrudged him for never being able to fully look away from Heaven’s light, even though he had never wanted Aziraphale to Fall. Always second best, a lowly demon after all. Unable to understand what Aziraphale still saw in them, they who cared nothing for Aziraphale, when Crowley was there, arms outstretched, able to feel things no demon should, devoted completely to him.

He had been so furious five years ago that Aziraphale still considered them _family_. Entertaining even for a moment that Aziraphale thought himself superior, even when he knew better, knew that they had always been equals. Selfish, always so selfish, blinded by his own exile, unwilling to step outside himself to understand the one who was more important than anything else in the world.

God must be punishing him once more, to witness the veil being ripped off Aziraphale’s eyes, seeing the true face of Heaven. The thing a dark little part of himself had always wanted.

Seeing it now, Crowley wished desperately to take it all back.

A breath drawn in and released in tandem, Aziraphale squeezing his eyes shut with his fingers, still unsteady. “I don’t know how I can go there, Crowley. I cross the border and I’m back to 1915 instantly, and it’s like my lungs are being corroded inside out. I can _feel_ the gas. Like I’m d-dying all over again...”

“I’ll come with you.” He had already decided, from the moment he had read the paper. He had left Aziraphale alone in 1915. He would not leave him alone again.

“No!” Panic bubbling up again, eyes wild for a different reason now. “This isn’t a minor blessing, Crowley, this is a _miracle_. It’s saving someone’s life! I can’t risk you going back to Hell, not when they’re watching so closely!”

Crowley gathered his hands together, kissed them once, kissed them twice, lingering and loving. “You... you let me take care of Hell.” Mind already planning, sick with what he might have to do to distract them, to pull from the instincts that always whispered in his ear. “You really think I’m letting Heaven take you?”

Aziraphale was still trembling, voice wavering, seeking the steady ground Crowley always offered. Falling, falling, against his will, but Crowley would be there to catch him.

Always.

“It’s too dangerous. I can do this alone, I n-need to do this-”

“Because _they_ say so? Fuck what they say, Aziraphale. You’re... you’re more of an angel than they’ll ever be.”

He was not supposed to believe in goodness. Not supposed to protect it, to encourage it, to wrap it in tender hands and give himself away to it. There was no goodness in Heaven, not anymore. It was here, in the darkness of his room, a sliver of light tucked among blackened wings.

“We’re in this _together, _angel.”

Something broke over Aziraphale’s face, some realization that threw the shadows away, little glimpses of light in those sullen eyes. He looked above, then to Crowley, tears still glistening on his ruddy cheeks, hand fiddling with his ring.

“I...I have been so wrong about so many things, haven’t I.” He was not looking at Crowley, voice soft, and Crowley wasn’t sure if he should respond. A betrayal like this would lurk forever in Aziraphale’s mind; he knew firsthand what rejection from _his side_ meant.

Hours passed in silence, Aziraphale lost in thought, eyes firmly fixed on the ground, twisting his ring round and round. Crowley did not dare ask, not even as Aziraphale made to leave. The one burden he could not take from Aziraphale, condemned to watch him shoulder it alone.

Demons were unforgivable. Crowley had accepted his fate long ago.

He had never deserved it more than now, kissing Aziraphale good-bye, tasting the last vestiges of his mourning. Heaven may have plunged the dagger into his heart.

But, it was Crowley who had handed it to them.

He locked himself away in his vault that night, and as the grainy images surrounded him once more, he wept.

_Belgium, 1984_

The Arrangement had always been dangerous.

Their flimsy excuse to slip in and out of each other’s lives over the centuries, swapping duties, all in the name of convenience. Punishment would be severe, they both had known, their very existence on Earth in jeopardy. Easy to convince themselves they could spin their way out of trouble, exploit the laziness of their Head Offices. Danger shoved to the back of their minds; no need to be paranoid.

The last four decades had been more dangerous still. Tempting fate each day, unwilling and unable to stop what had been finally allowed to come alive. Death rang in every kiss, in every smile. Paranoia their new reality, looking over their shoulders, never able to settle, not anymore. Sharks circling, slow and steady, how much longer their luck would truly last neither could say.

This, however, was perhaps the most dangerous thing they had ever done.

The Arrangement and _them_ married together in this moment, this elevator, with the deadly word _Ypres _staring down at them. Intertwined hands, open and brazen, watching the red numbers tick upwards. Accompanying Aziraphale on an assignment, and one so critical as this, where eyes could be everywhere. This was stupid. Reckless. Daring their sides to swoop down and put an end to this once and for all.

Aziraphale was white and trembling, and Crowley did not care how reckless and stupid and fucking _dangerous_ this was. He would not leave Aziraphale alone, not now, not ever. The thermos tucked into his jacket, Hellfire pictured clearly in his mind. Let them come. Let them try.

He’d destroy them all before they could ever lay a finger on Aziraphale.

“Five minutes. In and out, angel.” A squeeze of their hands, the darkness ever present in Aziraphale’s soul, ensuring his heart still beat as it should. Nothing would ever be enough to absolve his guilt, but this, at least, he could do.

The hallway was endless, even as human eyes slid past them unseeing, Crowley making sure they would not be bothered. Aziraphale staring straight ahead, everything rigid, drawn in, a shadow of himself. Plans to sweep him away afterwards, far away from Belgium, from Europe. To stitch him back together as best he could. They found the room, as white and sterile as all the others, a small child with too much machinery sunk into her body.

Her parents looked up, Crowley knew the miracle demanded they be seen. Aziraphale’s hand at his throat, breathing erratic, and Crowley cursed Heaven once more. “Come on, angel, almost there, almost there.” Guiding his trembling hand to the child’s heart, and though Crowley despised what they had done to Aziraphale, this at least was a worthy miracle.

A spark of colour returned to Aziraphale’s face, able to concentrate for just a moment, to breathe life back into one who deserved a second chance. A few minutes and Aziraphale could be free.

They could do this.

Until a familiar chill crept into the room.

Pain rocketed up Crowley’s spine as Death there stood in all its terrible glory, empty eyes surveying them. What little colour had come to Aziraphale’s face drained, staring at the intruder, free hand at his throat once more.

It was all Crowley could do not to foolishly fight it; to scream, to condemn, to ask Death what the fuck it was playing at, and who the fuck had sent it.

Aziraphale was quivering beside him, unable to tear his gaze away. Time was running out; if Death was here, Michael could be next, and Ligur could come soon after. This needed to be done, he could not lose Aziraphale. Once they took him, they would not give him back. He had spent too many years without Aziraphale, he would not spend a single second longer.

There was only one option left. The most dangerous one of all.

He pulled from the forbidden feeling deep in his core, where stars twinkled and Aziraphale rested. A hand over Aziraphale’s, the lightness frozen in place, half finished, unable to move.

He could feel the weakness of the child’s heart, a few beats away from Death’s embrace. He shut his eyes, imagined it new, imagined it perfect. Darkness joined the light, a gentle nudge, mixing in perfect harmony. Fluid and effortless, winding together around the damaged organ, almost there. Tendrils of Aziraphale, distilled down to his very core, achingly beautiful as it flowed in and out of his own tainted essence. Tears sprung to his eyes and he forced them away. Goodness, what goodness should be, filled with a Love he no longer could claim.

He did not imagine Hell. He did not imagine what his fate would be if he was caught. Eternity of torture, no mercy of an execution. He only imagined Aziraphale, and the child, and all their humans gathered on Earth.

Together. As they always had been. As they always would be.

The child’s eyes fluttered, opened, a deep breath inhaled.

“Mama... Papa...”

Her parents broke into sobs of utter relief, Crowley breathing hard through his nose. Blessings had never come easy for him, miracles even more taxing. Instincts puncturing him, he drowned them out as he had always done before. Her parents looked at them both; hope and awe and reverence, things Crowley should not be looked at with.

“What... what are you?”

Crowley waited. This was it. The closing act of the miracle. Once Aziraphale spoke these words the job would finally be at an end. He waited. Waited.

Aziraphale did not move. Entranced by Death, lost in some unseen horror, chest rising and falling with shallow, painful breaths.

Fuck.

He swallowed. Burning. Excruciating. Everything on fire, everything. He forced the words out through gritted teeth, forced himself to believe in them, for Aziraphale’s sake.

“Angels of the Lord. Go now in peace.”

It was easy to hate Heaven. Easy to fixate on their corruption, on their hypocrisy. Easy to pretend the void in his heart did not ring hollow with those words, even as his blackened soul screamed for vengeance, promised to punish him for daring to step out of line.

He had once been filled with Love. Indescribable, pristine Love.

He had once been an angel of the Lord.

He could have been like Aziraphale. Could have been together without needing to hide. No need to linger in the shadows, to cling in secret, always wondering when the day would come that the final bell tolled.

Melancholy filled him, too strong, too visceral to force away. He took Aziraphale’s hand, ignored the look on his face, pulled away from Death’s visage in shock at Crowley’s words. A wave of his hand and they disappeared from the humans’ view. He could not be here any longer. He needed a drink, he needed sun, and fire, and heat.

Away from this chill that was getting closer.

And closer.

He tried to move. He tried to snap away. Death was approaching, fathomless eyes keeping them in place. He pulled Aziraphale tight, warm skin, warmth, the cold was extinguishing his fire, his sin. He would not let Death take him, not again. Strength vanishing, drowning in darkness, no sound could escape, fear there now, fear, fear.

The hospital was gone. Aziraphale was gone. Darkness all he could see, worse than Hell, no sense of himself any longer. Drowning, drowning, ripped asunder, skeletal hands cradling his core. A blinding white light, crimson and gold running through his fingers, something piercing his heart, he couldn’t breathe.

_Heed my words, Demon Crowley, Principality Aziraphale. _

_You cannot hide forever._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I say this every chapter, but I am completely overwhelmed again at the response this fic has gotten, especially last chapter. I cannot thank you all enough for your comments, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions. Trust me when I say each and every one of them is re-read several times and is the best inspiration I can ask for.


	5. Chapter 5

_Eden, Year One_

_It was strange being underneath his enemy’s wing._

_Crawly had expected a fight. To be sent straight back to Hell. He was a demon, after all, and a demon who had caused God to cast out Her most _beloved_ creations, at that._

_It was what any righteous angel of the Lord would do._

_Instead, here he was, huddled beneath pristine wings of white, protected from this water that fell from the sky. A cool mist sprayed against his face, flecking across his newborn skin. A curious sensation, so different than the scorching flames of Hell. His forked tongue dared to flick out, unable to resist the temptation. It was just as cold, tingled somewhat. _

_He had not been this close to an angel since his Fall, holiness saturating the air. Made his nostrils sting, made these new instincts itch and fester. He should hurt this angel. Should drag him to Hell with him; a crowning jewel of rebellion against his Creator. _

_If it had been Michael, that traitor, he might have. Would have revelled in seeing that beautiful face twist in terror._

_But, this was not Michael. This was Aziraphale. A strange, little angel. Seemingly unremarkable, just another body in a line of many. Yet gifted with a flaming sword, forged from God Herself, an honour that had made the others seethe with a jealousy they dared not speak of._

_Who had turned around and given that honour to these tainted humans without a second thought._

_Aziraphale. Strange, intriguing Aziraphale._

_Crawly wondered if he remembered the last time they crossed paths._

_Aziraphale had not stopped watching these two humans, growing smaller and smaller in the endless sand. Something pricked at Crawly the longer he stared at him, something turning in the gaping void that had once contained his Grace. He shrugged it off, did not like how it felt. He turned his own gaze to the lion, lying curiously still, with a growing puddle of red underneath it._

“_That lion hasn’t moved.” _

_Aziraphale did not answer him, plump lips caught between perfect white teeth. The odd feeling stirred once more, and Crawly frowned. _

“_Eh? That lion. It’s just laying there. And there’s... red all around it. You ever seen that before?” Aziraphale only hummed, twisting his hands together as Adam and Eve became distant specks in the horizon. “Your sword did something to it.”_

_That got Aziraphale’s attention. Turning to him with folded arms, expelling a sharp breath. “_My _sword? It’s your fault those poor humans are out there in the first place! Don’t blame what... whatever happened on me!” _

_Amusement flickered in Crawly’s gut, winding up these newly forged limbs and tugging at his mouth. Odd that. His lips had curved upwards because of Aziraphale earlier, too. Stretching his skin, making him feel as if he were flying. _

_He could stay up here and needle Aziraphale forever. Far away from the sulphur that tore through his soul. Far away from the greedy hands that grabbed, and ripped, and sought endless pain. _

_That might be... nice. _

_He looked back at the lion, wanting to continue this game, this delight. Clinging to the airy sensation deep within his chest, when the retort died on his lips._

_They weren’t alone._

_A formless, dark shape hovered over the too still lion. Dread seeped into his blood the longer he looked, rooting Crawly to the spot. Trying to speak, but his voice had fled. He could only pull at Aziraphale’s robes, needing to know it wasn’t just his troublesome mind imagining this._

“_What...” and Aziraphale’s voice faded too, held captive just like Crawly. Eyes wide, breaths held tight in their newborn lungs, staring at this _thing_ that tugged at their very essence._

_Wings suddenly sprung forth, unlike anything Crawly had ever seen. Darkness, darkness, like the farthest reaches of the universe, where no stars twinkled, where not a sound could be heard. Swallowing everything around the lion, piercing the air, something else there, distant lights that danced in and out of sight. _

_A shoulder brushed against Crawly, not sure who had moved, hypnotized as a figure emerged, enormous, blotting out the last remnants of the sun. Human shaped, with arms and legs, and draped in black robes, darker even than Crawly’s. It wasn’t a demon. He could not sense the sin of rebellion that marked the Fallen, the simmering fury that seared their flesh._

_Not a demon. Not a human. _

_Then what was it?_

_The figure turned and Crawly nearly collapsed._

_A white skull sat atop those dark robes, pearly bone that glimmered and shone even at a distance. A chill swept over them, carried by the wind and water, soaking through to Crawly’s core, deep, deep, deep, where once only God had been able to reach. He could not breathe, he could not speak, lost in the fathomless void where eyes should have been. _

_Cold, cold, it was so cold. This thing, this entity, cutting right through Crawly, turning him over and over at will. He grabbed hold of something, warm skin, soft, soft, hardly aware he was doing it. The hand held his own just as tightly, trembling in his grip._

_The figure stood there, observing them, endless wings spanning the entire horizon. It turned without a word, without acknowledgement. It did not need to, they knew they had been seen. It raised its hood, and took flight, towards where the vulnerable little humans had disappeared. _

_The chill did not fade and their hands did not relinquish their grasp. Something else there now, laid under his skin, against his will, marked forever, colder and darker than the hatred coiled around his heart. He glanced at Aziraphale, just as stricken, the grip on his hand almost painful._

“_Was that... one of yours?” Quiet, as though the thing might hear and come back, angelic voice stripped bare of its musical lilt._

“_No.” A swallow, no thoughts of cockiness, of questions, of the unwelcome feelings that accompanied Aziraphale. “One of yours?”_

“_...N-no.”_

_The unspoken hung between them, too horrible to poke and prod. The sky crashed and screamed, the water drenching them even beneath Aziraphale’s wings._

_Where the lion once lay, only the red remained, washed away by the pounding water, rivulets running down towards the high Eastern gate._

_It touched the stone, and Aziraphale squeezed his hand._

_St. Barthélemy,_ _ 1984_

“Was it a warning... or a threat?”

Mist hung heavy over the distant horizon as the morning sun peeked up over the ocean waves. Shoulder to shoulder, their reflections in the pool rippling with the breeze. Crowley did not respond right away, allowing the vodka to sear his windpipe the entire way down. Pointless to ask, neither one knowing the answer, but the silence had become too much to bear.

“I don’t know, Aziraphale.”

The question tortured him. Thousands of years of crossing paths with Death and it had never done such a thing. He could still feel the colours bleeding through his fingers, the blinding light that had wrung him of every ounce of power. The air was humid and yet the chill remained, tattooed into his lungs, present with every shuddering breath.

A hand reached out and found his own, interlacing their fingers, and Crowley’s eyes fluttered close. Aziraphale was here. Warm and safe and _alright_. Coming to in the hospital to find Aziraphale on his knees, shaking and gasping for air, not responding to Crowley, not responding to anything. Snapping them away to the villa, far from prying eyes, desperate, desperate, needing Aziraphale to come back to him.

“How... how long has it... _known_?”

Crowley let out a bitter laugh. “Decades? Haven’t exactly been fucking careful around it, have we.” All those times they had let down their guard, reassuring themselves it was only Death. Their fellow Earthly sojourner, who probably didn’t even know what exactly was happening between them. Death was there to collect souls, nothing more. What did it care about a wayward angel and demon?

How long had it known? Centuries, if Crowley was truly being honest. It could not have missed all the lingering touches and longing gazes. Could not have missed saving each other’s lives, bending the rules over and over, all for friendship, all for feelings that even now they could not freely admit to.

It may have always known. Never involved, never speaking more than a handful of carefully chosen words.

But, always watching.

“Why _now_?” He kicked the water, sent droplets spattering across Aziraphale’s pale legs. “It’s not like this is the first time we’re bloody seeing it since the war. Fuck, it can do whatever it wants, it doesn’t need a human dying to pop on in to play mind games.” He pulled Aziraphale’s hand closer, panic bubbling up, impossible to push back down. “It never cared before. What, did it _change its mind_ all of a sudden?”

But, that wasn’t entirely true. It _did _care, on some twisted level. Enough to lie to Hell on Crowley’s behalf, to save them both from certain destruction. He still hadn’t figured out how or why, couldn’t shake the feeling that such help carried a dire price.

But, it had saved them. Crowley did not understand Death, not even after near 6000 years, but it did not seem an entity that changed its mind so easily.

“I’m not sure, darling.” He could hear it in Aziraphale’s voice, the same horrifying pieces sliding into place. All he could do not to sink into his lap, to allow Aziraphale to tuck him away in his wings, just for a few fleeting moments. “If it _has_ known since... well, the beginning, for it to interfere now...”

A pause, tense and taut, an elastic pulled beyond its limits, and Crowley willed with all his might for Aziraphale not to continue.

“Then... it’s only a matter of time before... before we are found out.”

It landed with a thud between them. Crowley staring hard at their reflections, throat constricted, burning and aching as Aziraphale at last spoke the unspeakable to life. He had always known this could not last. Happiness was not what demons deserved, and She would see to snuffing it out.

It did not stop the hysteria that threatened to overcome him. They played with fire every day, every second the last forty years. So many close calls already, only survived by the skin of their teeth. It was only inevitable that their luck would eventually run out.

Had he really thought this could go on forever? A happy ending, a long ride into the sunset, he and Aziraphale safe and free?

Perhaps Aziraphale would leave again, take flight to his sterile home in the clouds. No amount of cold-hearted assignments to Belgium were worth trading his life for Crowley.

And Crowley couldn’t blame him.

Water lapped around their toes, the only sound in the grim silence. Flecks of gold caught the sunrise, winking and tempting Crowley to look over at Aziraphale, wind rustling through the tousled curls. Aziraphale caught his eye and Crowley forced himself not to look away, to drink in the rosy cheeks, the clever eyes full of sorrow and fear.

He was selfish. He didn’t want to lose Aziraphale. Not again.

“Could be here any minute.” Voice low, barely a whisper, swept up in the morning breeze. Mind saturated in paranoia, the smallest sound sending his heart into a frenzy. A soft hand to his cheek, thumb tracing the freckles dusted across his skin, and Crowley could not help but lean into the touch.

“I know.”

“Should get out of here while you still have the chance.” Heart twisting at the mere thought, of watching Aziraphale walk away from him one more time. Aziraphale’s gaze hardened, steel shining in those eyes and Crowley’s stomach flipped despite himself, faint sparks of hope when he deserved none.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley.”

No chance to respond, Aziraphale crashing their lips together, a desperate ferocity. The noble thing, the right thing, would be to pull away, a kiss good-bye, to send Aziraphale into the stars out of harm’s way.

He was not noble, he was not strong. Any moment and they could be ripped from each other’s arms, each second more precious than the last. Hands roaming everywhere, bunched up in each other’s clothes; desperate and broken and unwilling to let go. Aziraphale pulled him closer, and closer still, fingers fumbling with the zipper of his jacket, and Crowley realized just what he was doing.

“Wait-wait!” Panting, desire and arousal singing in his blood, rushing to his head. He was not noble, but Crowley could not bear this one thing, would sacrifice himself over and over to prevent it occurring. “Angel-Aziraphale! We- you’ll-” Aziraphale looking at him, pupils blown wide, all he could do not to continue.

“You’ll Fall.”

Choked words, jagged edges of grief and longing. Crowley could never bear it, never, to Damn Aziraphale, who was good and pure and deserved nothing but serenity.

A peculiar look flitted across Aziraphale’s face. One that darkened his eyes, made his brows furrow, before his hands cradled his cheeks, nose tips touching.

“I_ won’t_, darling.” Crowley tried to protest, but Aziraphale hushed him. “Crowley... if I was to... to Fall because of you, it would have happened a long time ago.”

He couldn’t understand. Aziraphale calm and staring at him with unmasked longing, as if Crowley would not corrupt him, as if crossing that line was akin to their very first kiss, softness and innocence. Too much to bear, it was all too much, with Death and all the rest of them hovering over their little paradise. He tried to pull away but Aziraphale held on, wide eyes begging him to listen.

“No, no, it’s different.” He meant to sound strong and firm, but his voice cracked, and his hands shook, and his glasses were far, far away. “You said as much yourself in fucking Monaco the-the last time we almost, y’know...”

A low sigh of understanding fanned across his face, a soft kiss that covered his skin. Shame there, a look of utmost guilt, and Crowley was close to careening over the edge. “That wasn’t because I thought I would Fall, Crowley.”

“But-”

“It was misplaced loyalty.” An edge to his voice, sharp enough to cut through diamonds, and Crowley felt his entire being still. “I have been so foolish for such a long time. I very much thought I could, what is that human expression? ‘Have my cake and eat it too’.” A humourless laugh, foreheads bumped together. “As if those... _angels_ would ever look past my being with you so long as we were not intimate. So foolish...”

Something light cracking through the darkness, through the endless sensation of drowning. It couldn’t be something so simple, that old song of Heaven’s ever watchful eye. The last chains falling away, Aziraphale his now, _his _for the taking. Heart pounding in his throat, hands grasping at the aged overcoat.

“Are you sure?” So many steps, so many careful moments, and now at the final hurdle, Crowley froze. Certain that this could not be real, certain still that at last getting what he had long desired would destroy Aziraphale. “I couldn’t- I don’t want-”

“_Crowley,_” hands moved to his hair, gripping, almost painful, his voice hoarse. “If Death was truly warning us, and our time is limited, I don’t want to wait any longer.” Aziraphale’s cheeks were flushed, heat radiating off his skin, Crowley’s ears ringing. “We’re in this together... right?”

It was all Crowley needed.

He could not remember standing. Could not remember how they got to the bedroom. Only that they were kissing and kissing, that clothes were littering the floor, that he was shaking, and perhaps Aziraphale was too. Needing to quell the aching melancholy deep inside; needing to touch, to taste, to claim.

He had seen Aziraphale undressed before, but never like this.The fine white hair that covered his body, the wonderful plumpness that beckoned his bony fingers to explore. Gold there too now, scattered across his chest and down his calves, and Crowley could only stare in absolute awe.

“_Angel_,” he spoke with reverence, a divine hush. His feather rested there, the gold gathered around it, a heavenly guardian. Aziraphale drank him just as greedily, just as unrelenting, hands following the former stars down his torso.

Nothing would ever compare. Nothing in Hell or Heaven or anything between. Lips covering every inch of skin. Bodies arching in pleasure. Names spilled out like endless prayers. He had never felt more human, never felt more like himself. The strange boundary between earthly pleasures and what they truly were, slotted into place, missing pieces found at last. Both just as demanding, tugging at their ethereal essences, darkness and light entwined in harmony, as if meant to be all along.

He could _feel_ Aziraphale. Raw, there for nobody but himself. Crowley knew that he was forever changed. It stung, it burned, this unbesmirched holiness, and he was _alive_. Pushing further, deeper, soaking in all that Grace. Aziraphale, here he was, here he _truly_ was. No language could ever capture the beauty, the sublime, a thousand newborn stars that sent fire over his Form. Too much to look at head-on and he kept his Eyes turned away.Pain laced Aziraphale’s face as well, submerged entirely in Crowley’s sin, tight hands that told Crowley to think twice about pulling back.

This might be their only chance. He could turn his head and Ligur would be there, a handful of Hellfire lighting his eyes. Michael close behind, ready to rip them both asunder.

If this was it, so be it then.

Crowley would make every last second count.

Twilight descended as they at last collapsed beside each other, drenched in sweat, heaving breaths and tingling limbs. The bitter chill of Death long extinguished, euphoria humming in his blood and heart, salty tear tracks tickling his lips. Aziraphale draped himself over his chest, not bothering to wipe his own cheeks, dropping sweet kisses along his collarbone.

Crowley pulled him close, trembling and exhausted, but still reaching out, to make sure the pristine Love still remained. A lingering kiss to those curls, unspoken poems but Aziraphale could hear it all the same. Their wings had burst free somewhere along the way, Aziraphale’s hands lazily tracing shapes in the black feathers.

They were still alone. No sound but the tinkling wind chimes and the distant music from the beaches below.

Alone.

For now.

“How long do you think we have?” Unvarnished honesty, no hidden words and careful dances. No place for them any longer. They were each other’s now. Wholly. Completely.

There was no answer. Only wings that wrapped around the other, sealing their fate.

_Britain, 1991_

“What possessed you to stick that here, anyway?”

The heavy scent of cologne and tequila clung to their skin, slick with sweat, as pale green stars above bathed them in gentle neon light. Crowley curled against Aziraphale’s broad chest, fingers idly stroking his feather, in perfect rhythm with the fingers wound around his scraggly curls.

A hum from deep within that chest, coaxing Crowley to press closer still. Enough alcohol that it all felt alright, the endless spinning halted for a few sacred moments. A question fastidiously avoided for so many years, never spoken, never acknowledged.

It could go unspoken for centuries more. But, today was ripe for truths to be revealed, for light to chase out the remaining shadows that hung just out of their reach. A celebratory occasion, the moment everything changed.

The hand in his hair paused, moved to curl around his neck, warmth trickling down his spine. “Well, originally, it was to keep it out of sight of Gabriel. He came too soon after you had left for me to hide it away.”

Crowley waited, fingers running through the edges of the sleek black feather, still as soft as it had been so many years ago. A hand soon joined his, fingertips kissing as they traced its outline, the steady march of Aziraphale’s heart a soothing lullaby.

“_You_ were there.” Nearly a whisper, a gentle hush in the darkened room. “You never even hesitated. Even after that horrid affair in St. James Park... you were _still_ there.” Scarcely breathing, scarcely moving, save for the rise and fall of Aziraphale’s chest. “I had missed you terribly, Crowley. It was never more apparent than when you had to leave.” The arm around him tightened, fingers clenching his hair. Crowley pressed closer, a reassurance.

“And I... I didn’t quite have it in me anymore to pretend I didn’t want you as close as could be.”

Crowley looked up at that. He knew, of course, on some level. Why they were in this room at all, half drunk with cinnamon on their lips, with rose petals under their limbs.

But, never truly confirmed, never truly allowed to breathe; for the truth to unfold its wings and take flight. Aziraphale gazing at him, an expression of utmost fondness that still made the echoes of rage ring in his ears.

He brushed it aside, easier as each year yawned into the next. A ghost of a smirk, even as he caressed his cheek, swept down the soft jaw. “Is that why you were so insistent on today being the day? I would have thought ‘59...”

A chuckle rumbled throughout his chest, Crowley tucking his face away to hide his errant smile. “I suppose we _could_ have, but would you really have wanted to wait another 18 years?”

“You were the one who came up with this whole thing, let’s get that bloody straight. I don’t _do_ anniversaries.” But, his smile was impossible to hide now, etched against Aziraphale’s body.

Fifty years. Fifty years of the impossible. So easily things could have gone on as usual, another missed moment buried with all the others. He would not have ever believed this is where he would end up, with Aziraphale’s lips pressed into his hair, free to touch whenever he desired. He covered the feather with his hand, bestowed a lingering kiss on his mouth.

They had not stopped looking over their shoulders for fifty years. Could not relax for even a second, every day drawing Death’s warning closer and closer to fruition. But, it hardly seemed a price to pay when this was the life Crowley got to lead.

“Are you saying,” Aziraphale lips mumbled against his own, little sparks shooting down Crowley’s groin, “that you don’t consider this day to be when we became beaus?”

It was said in jest, yet Crowley frowned. Staring down at Aziraphale, eyes raking over the curls plastered to his forehead, the slightly crooked nose. He could let it go, continue with their little to and fro. They deserved a break, a sliver of peace.

But, Aziraphale deserved to know. Had already cracked open his shell long ago, laid bare the raw and pitiful parts of himself that no one else had seen. Who had given up Heaven, knowingly risked extinction.

All for Crowley.

He was out of his bedroom without a word, trailing passed the television turned to face the wall, remnants of the time Ligur had nearly caught them watching _Golden Girls_. The Mona Lisa swinging open, revealing a nondescript keypad, not lost on Crowley that the combination was the very day they were marking. A door slid away, revealing a room unlike any other, Aziraphale unable to contain the small gasp of surprise.

“Crowley...” He stood there, turning every which way, naked body glistening in the pale light. Rows and rows of books and ancient scrolls, clothes that should be tattered and faded behind glass cases as though they were new. A desk there, wooden and timeless, an old projector with a roll simply titled _Belgium 1915._

Crowley said nothing as Aziraphale drank it all in, heart beating so painfully he nearly miracled it away. Never had he intended to bring Aziraphale here, not even in his most far-fetched fantasies. No room to hide, no room for smirks and arrogance. He could only watch as it all fell into place, Aziraphale’s eyes widening as he looked at the ancient film.

“This is...” Trembling fingers reaching out, but faltering before he could touch it. “Why do you... _where_ did you...”

“Nicked it. About fifty years ago. Give or take a day.”

Understanding dawning on that beautiful face, eyes flicking between Crowley and the film. He knew what he wanted to ask, the burning questions gathering behind his lips. How could he begin to explain, the papers upon papers stacked in his desk, all about Ypres, his eternal millstone. A film watched over and over, statistics carved into his mind. The humans said never to forget. Never again.

“Am I...?”

He could not answer. Not when his throat had nearly closed and his eyes burned. No clothes to fiddle with, not even a drink to hide his quivering hands. He had scanned every second for any signs of Aziraphale, had found him on the first viewing, a fleeting glimpse in a pile of corpses.

Aziraphale paled, turned away, busied himself with uncovering more of Crowley’s heart. Every postcard he had sent while away on assignment, the pictures that Crowley had strong-armed him into taking together. The white feather atop a silk cushion, the crowning jewel of all his memories. Cracked items from ages long since passed, where there had been no _them_, only fraternizing, and moments filled with regrets.

“Crowley.” Whispering now, and it still rang much too loud. “This is...” A long pause, staring at Crowley, unable to find the right words, and Crowley still could not look at him. He could spin a lie, a half-truth just as he always did. Shove it down to the soles of his feet, stomp it underfoot and keep Aziraphale from getting too close.

He couldn’t. Not today. Not after everything.

“You know what I have to do to keep them off my back.” He ran his fingers along a sonnet Aziraphale had written him, in gratitude for Hamlet. “Don’t think I haven’t seen how much bloody pain you’re in when I come back all fucked up thanks to _them_,” spitting at the mere mention of Below, “and we sleep together.”

Aziraphale’s swallow was visible, even as his eyes hardened, ready to deflect any of Crowley’s concerns, just as he always did. Mercifully he waited, waited as Crowley slowly moved towards him, hands trailing over thousands and thousands of years.

“There’s this thing. Pool of Sacrilege. Stupid name; Satan isn’t as creative as he thinks he is.” He could feel the infernal instincts twitch at the mention, scream in agony as the touch of Aziraphale’s feather drowned them out. “It’s where we all crawled out of when _She _threw us out. Had to take another little swim to get back up here. Never really gone away since.”

He had never spoken of his time in Hell. Too much, even now, memories fresh and barbed despite the march of time. Aziraphale coming closer now too, inch by inch, gaze heavy and wonderful even as his skin pricked with shame.

“All this being here. It helps. Can come here, feel normal again.”

Aziraphale beside him now, and Crowley could no longer keep his gaze away. Traitorous eyes wet, blurred at the edges, and Aziraphale’s eyes shone, too. “I know you feel it. You deep-diving into _this_,” gesturing at his heart, where the sin thrummed away, “even though I know it hurts, you stubborn arse.”

His voice cracked, did not bother pretending it didn’t. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“As if your pain is any easier for me to witness.” But, his voice was soft, and his touch was gentle, resting atop Crowley’s heart. “I am not the only one ‘deep-diving’ into the metaphysical body, Crowley.” A sad little smile, the kind that tore Crowley right in two.

He hesitated, before his hands moved towards his back. Crowley sucked in a breath, Aziraphale delicately ghosting over the long scar down his spine. Panic rushed to the surface, eager to jerk away, but something kept him locked in place. Perhaps now was the time, here in this corner of the Earth just for Crowley, naked as the day God breathed him to life.

“Is this from that Pool of Sacrilege?” Pain laced every word, oh it cut Crowley into pieces, to hear such grief on his behalf. “Did they do this to you?”

He should have realized Aziraphale had seen it, what he had tried to keep hidden for so long. As if he could not feel the wretched edges each time they fell into bed, each time he sought out the long destroyed constellations in his freckles.

He ought to flee. To push Aziraphale right back into his bookshop. But, he could only shut his eyes, grit his teeth as the truth at last was set free.

“No. Wasn’t them.”

Deafening in the room, even as they were frozen in place, scarcely breathing. He himself wasn’t quite sure, only had half-formed hunches that were too horrifying to think on too long. He settled on what he knew for certain, bracing himself for the inevitable.

“I promised you it wouldn’t happen again. And it... it did, didn’t it.” He let out a harsh laugh, balled his hands into fists. “Well, actions have consequences...”

“What did you promise?” He somehow could picture Aziraphale’s face perfectly, dripping with concern, wide eyes and parted lips. “Darling, who did this to you?”

“I don’t know, Aziraphale!” He turned, and it was just as he imagined, eyes that implored to take on Crowley’s burden. “Alright, I don’t know. But, I know I swore to you I’d never let you die again, that _Ypres_ would never happen again, and I failed. I fucking failed.” His eyes stung and his lips wobbled, but he refused to give in. “That bomb fell and I couldn’t save you, and it’s been there ever since and-and rightfully so.”

“Oh, _Crowley._” He had never sounded so heartbroken. Crowley clenched his teeth, drew further into himself. Exposed, exposed, as Aziraphale reached out to comfort him, and Crowley flinched. “I would have never wanted something like this. You do not deserve to suffer, Crowley, don’t you realize that? If I had known you were... making an honest-to-goodness _vow_ I-I never would have-”

“Don’t. Don’t you even start.” Hands grasping his shoulders, shaking him slightly. No, no, he would not let Aziraphale make him take it back, to undo the one promise he intended to keep until he was crushed out of existence. “I should have been there, Ypres was my fault!”

Suffer, he deserved to suffer, no matter what lies Aziraphale told himself. “I won’t take it back, angel, so don’t you even think about asking. I don’t regret it, and I’d do it again, scar or not.”

There were tears trickling down Aziraphale’s cheeks, staring up at Crowley in utter disbelief. He almost would have preferred anger, to the righteous fury that rested underneath that beatific smile. The sorrow, the helplessness cut far deeper, and Crowley could not bear to look any longer.

“I meant it. I meant every word.” Turning away, holding the feather close to his chest. Faint vestiges of holiness warming his flesh. “Deserve that scar. Means I won’t fail again.”

For a long while, neither moved. Silence, not even the sound of a ticking clock, or cars passing by. He could feel the warm breath on his back, the hairs on his neck standing at attention. There he was, stripped of all his armour, more than he ever had been before. What he deserved, after Ypres, after seeing Aziraphale’s too still body tossed aside as if he was nothing.

But then, a hand on his back, and then another, pressed where his wings lay hidden out of sight. Crowley shivered, breath caught in his throat. Lips touched the top of his spine, and Crowley went very still.

A kiss. Another. Trailing down, slow and deliberate. Every inch of scarred flesh accounted for, lingering and lingering until it tingled.

“I forgive you.”

Time slowed. Stopped. Shattered.

No. No. _No._

The room spun, his heart dropping to the floor. No, no, no! This could not be happening, not something so dangerous. Didn’t Aziraphale realize what he was doing? After everything he had said, after every pain-filled night spent together. Aziraphale had touched evil, insisted on _feeling_ what Crowley truly was after every wretched assignment, even as Crowley begged him to wait, just wait, until he could soak in his presence for a few precious minutes, temper the vestiges of all that hatred.

_You’re nothing like them, Crowley. Nothing. You would never hurt me. Not even at your worst._

Forgiveness.

Any moment and the instincts would charge to the forefront, urge him to do what he was meant to.

_Forgiveness._

The one thing he would never obtain, that kept Grace from ever filling him again. And Aziraphale dared to say that to him? As if he was not a demon, born from Hell, who took pleasure in misery, drew power from destruction?

Muscles rigid, ready to fight, to clamp down on all the infernal things that whispered in his ear. He might have to whisk Aziraphale away, forgiveness, this word, bestowed so freely on him. Hell would not let it go unpunished. Screwing his eyes shut, blood bursting from where his nails dug in.

Forgiveness. He couldn’t. Not him. Too far, even for them, even with all the lines they had crossed.

He waited. Ready to destroy himself rather than let those instincts win. If his heart urged him to harm Aziraphale he would rip it out. If Satan himself rose up for daring to accept, he would drown them both in Holy Water, one last stand so Aziraphale could be safe.

But, the hatred didn’t come.

The voices were faint. Powerless. No more enticing than usual.

He let out a shuddering breath, close to a sob, and covered his face. The feather was warm, so splendidly warm against his cheek, every limb trembling. The hands on his back were shaking too, hot tears splashing down with every loving kiss.

He was a demon. Unforgivable. Or so he had been told. He should wrench away, should not let this facade continue any longer.

“I forgive you, Crowley.”

Crowley did the unthinkable.

He bowed his head, shut his eyes.

And he did not pull away.

_Britain, 1999_

“Another thousand years gone. Where’d the bloody time go?”

The streets pulsed below them, a swirling mass of pure energy that rippled throughout the city, beckoned them to join. High above the London skyline, old Big Ben winking in the distance, their breaths mingling in the cold winter air.

“It did seem to go rather fast, didn’t it?”

Aziraphale pressed up against him, hands intertwined under the tartan quilt with threads of vibrant red. Crowley remembered the last millennium he had witnessed, one wretched century rolling into another. He had been alone then, squirrelled away in some nowhere land on some forgettable assignment. He had not seen Aziraphale for over a century, the horrifying realization dawning on him as he watched the sun rise on the five thousandth year that the forbidden feeling was never going to go away.

And that he never wanted it to.

He flicked his cigarette butt into the air, turned it into colourful sparks that rained down from the sky around Aziraphale. He had been tense lately, smiles that didn’t light his eyes. Too sullen to even indulge in his favourite sweets. Aziraphale caught a spark on his finger, gazed at it a little too long, face lined in melancholy.

“Have you heard what they’ve been saying? About... about what will happen tonight.”

Voice distant, still not looking at Crowley, eyes fixated on the steadfast clock tower. He didn’t understand at first, Aziraphale irritatingly vague as he always was in moments like this, before it all clicked into place. He couldn’t contain the scoff that escaped. _This_ was what had been weighing on Aziraphale so heavily?

“What? That the world is going to end? How many times have the humans said that by now. Come on, you don’t really believe them, do you?”

But, Aziraphale did not laugh with him. Did not huff in indignation, or throw that deadly pout that always landed its mark. He continued to stare out at the horizon, and Crowley realized his free hand was clutching the tartan thermos close to his chest.

“Angel.”

“They could be right. The world will end eventually. You and I both know that.” The thermos cradled against his chest rising and falling rapidly, the heartbeat in his ears shrill, much too shrill, panic ringing out in every note. Instinctual now, hardly even aware, of his own essence seeking out Aziraphale’s heart down well-worn trails, willing it to calm.

But, there were smoky tendrils of dread winding through his own stomach despite his indignation. 16 years since Death had spoken to them. 16 years of bated breaths, of meticulous plans, and check ins, and daily phone calls with every assignment. He had always thought each year would get easier, that they could convince themselves that Death was merely toying with them.

Each year only brought more certainty that their end was nigh.

“Yes, but we don’t know _when_.” He pulled Aziraphale’s chin towards him, smoothed the worry lines around his mouth. “Don’t you think they would have blasted it over loudspeakers if that was the case? They still think we’re on their side.”

“But, that’s exactly my point! Maybe this is what Death was truly warning us about, that it won’t be them finding out about us, it’ll be Armageddon forcing us into the open.” Frantic, he was nearly frantic, clutching Crowley’s hand with all his might. “It goes beyond us. It’ll destroy everything, _everything_! All those wonderful little humans, and all their creations.”

It wasn’t working. Aziraphale’s heart continued to scream in alarm, immune to Crowley’s touch. Bleeding into Crowley now, his chest clenching as images of humans dying by the billions filled his mind’s eye.

He tried to shake it away. Could not dwell on the end of the world, it couldn’t possibly be tonight of all nights. Another trumped up example of human delusion, as if they could predict the fickle natures of Heaven and Hell. He cradled Aziraphale’s face fully, forced their eyes to meet. “You honestly think I’d fight you for those pricks? Really? They want to end our world, just let them try. Even if the humans somehow are _miraculously_ right.”

“It’s not just that, Crowley.” He was breaking, truly breaking. Deeper than Ypres. Deeper than Heaven’s betrayal. More of Crowley pouring into him now, even if it hurt, what else could he do? He was there, he always would be. He would sooner die than lay a finger on Aziraphale.

“I know what they will do to you when they win. Oh goodness, what horrible, horrible things they’ll do to you. I can’t witness that, _I can’t._ I know this is what Death’s warning was truly about, I can feel it in my very soul.”

He wanted to say that Aziraphale was being ridiculous. Getting all worked up for nothing. But, terror was quickly filling Crowley, laughing and twisting all his fears into new light. Perhaps they had interpreted the warning wrong all this time, expecting obliteration to be their end. Perhaps it was worse, so much worse. Hell winning, and taking Aziraphale for their prize. Making him watch what they would do to him, powerless to help, on and on for all eternity...

The crowds below were shouting now, joy so palpable even Crowley could taste it. Anticipation and fear and all the dizzying emotions humans felt in their too-short lives. History in the making, mere seconds away, the six thousandth year about to dawn, and they were lucky enough to witness it.

And they could be counting down to their very elimination.

“Angel, listen-”

“I love you.”

Crowley froze.

_10... 9..._

His mind and body separated. An instant death, floating somewhere above in his stars, flung far from reality. He must have heard wrong. That could be the only explanation. It could not be Aziraphale staring at him, desperate, desperate, his own hands cradling Crowley’s face. It could not be the impossible, even in their world of miracles.

It could not be Aziraphale loved him.

_...8... 7..._

Slipping away, a hurricane crashing along the shore line. Ships sinking beneath the violent waves, supernovas exploding and collapsing into black holes where no light could ever been seen. Aziraphale... no. He couldn’t... him, not him. A demon, beyond redemption. Evil incarnate.

Right?

_...6... 5..._

He was flying. He was soaring. Untouchable. Unstoppable. He had always known his own feelings, thousands and thousands of years. Growing despite the darkness, despite the adversity, despite the fact he was not meant to feel love. Even with all they had done, all they had shared, he had never dared to hope, to suspect Aziraphale might feel _love_ for him. Love for humans. Love for a God who no longer cared for Her creations.

But, love. For him. For Crowley.

_...4..._

Smiling now. He should not be smiling when Aziraphale was white and trembling, grip almost painful on his hollow cheeks. But, Aziraphale loved him. Had said it with his own voice. Not a dream. Not a fantasy. He deserved to hear the same, if this was truly it. That the unthinkable had happened, all because of Aziraphale. That Crowley loved and loved him in return. With the ferocity of all the galaxies he had sculpted with his hands, all the planets and comets scattered across his universe.

_...3..._

He opened his mouth. No sound emerged. He tried again. Again. The feeling was there, just like it always was. But, the ever present sin churning and churning, enraged at the feeling accepted and embraced. Caught the four words in its web, stuck somewhere in his throat. One last act of triumph in six thousand years of losing the war for Crowley’s soul.

He couldn’t say it.

_He couldn’t say it._

_...2..._

Time nearly gone, sand through their fingers, never to return. Maybe the humans were right, and this would be it, and Aziraphale might be condemned without ever knowing. Fury at himself, at being denied this one thing, the most important of them all.

He could not let the moment slip away.

“It’s always been you.” Desperate himself now, pulling Aziraphale as close as could be. Chests touching, noses touching, eyes so close he could feel the flutter of his lashes. “It’s always, _always_ been you, angel.”

He had to understand. Let him understand.

Let him have this, at least.

_...1!_

Aziraphale kissed him as the humans screamed with glee. Big Ben tolled, fireworks exploded, a cacophony of colours across the London skyline. Everywhere singing, everywhere dancing, lights and sounds and all the things humans had brought forth into their miserable little world.

On top of a roof, an angel and a demon kissed. Kissed with all the passion and anguish six millennia wrought. Kissed as their human charges celebrated, as new beginnings unfolded before their eyes. Kissed as the heavens remained shut and evil continued to lurk. Kissed because any moment could be their last as Death made its rounds already, new souls to take flight to their final destination.

Kissed with all the love they had long been denied, but had been born all the same.

Perhaps Aziraphale did understand. Perhaps he could see the truth behind those simple, silly words. He buried his face in Crowley’s neck, laughing, laughing, at what he could not say. Crowley could only laugh in return. Laughing. At Hastur. At Ligur. Beelzebub. Satan.

The world would end. One day, perhaps.

He almost wished it were tonight.

They had lost. They had lost them both and they would never get them back.

Aziraphale loved him.

And Crowley. The demon Crowley. The Serpent of Eden. The damned. The one cursed for eternity.

Crowley loved him, too.

_Britain, 2008_

All good things must come to an end.

A baby in the backseat. His Master’s sultry voice over the radio. Staring straight ahead, numb. Unable to think. To feel.

6000 years. Gone before he could catch his breath. 6000 years. He thought they had more time.

6000 years. The beginning of the end.

No more running. No more hiding.

_We’re in this together._

But, all good things must come to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last we've caught up to canon! This chapter was one of the ones I was looking forward the most to writing, for their first time together and the, "I love you" scenes in particular. I'm both excited and a little nervous to dive into the countdown to Armageddon, and if you thought the angst was bad before, buckle up.
> 
> I’ve also been working on another project for this universe that I’m very excited to share: a collection of missing scenes from this story that ended on up on the cutting room floor. Since so many years are skipped over, a lot of scenes had to be left out. So if that sounds interesting, be sure to keep your eyes peeled, as it will be posted soon!
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to everyone who commented, subscribed, bookmarked and left kudos. I continue to be amazed at the level of feedback for this fic, and am having so much fun not only writing this story, but getting to interact with all of you. Thank you all so much.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning: Brief mentions of suicidal thoughts and murder

_Britain, 2008_

_ 10:07 p.m_

It was cold that long August night.

It should not have been cold. There should not have been goosebumps pricking up Crowley’s arms, watching as the fog crept silently over his car. It was as if the world knew that things had changed, the final march towards its end. Irreversible. Relentless.

The basket was in his lap, weighed down with so much malice packed in such a small form. He could taste Hell’s scent in the air, made him gag, the foul odor of his Master unmistakable.

“It’s nothing personal.” His voice trembled, he told himself it was because of the cold. “S just the whole world ending business, you know.”

Time ticked by. He felt each second pounding in his ears. Shutting his eyes did nothing. Covering his ears did nothing. He was tempted to smash his car clock, just to stop the incessant sound.

_Tick_

_Tick_

_Tick_

The water churned below, a roaring gush of waves from an unusually wet summer. He had sat here for the last hour, crushed his phone under his foot when it had rang. Regretting it when he realized it might have been Aziraphale. He should call him, warn him, anything. But, his voice had fled, and his limbs were frozen.

Inside the basket, the Antichrist squirmed and sneezed, a tiny, delicate thing that belied the darkness that clung to his newborn skin. He had to do this. He _had_ to.

“If it’s any consolation, gonna be soon after you.”

His eyes slid over to the thermos sitting in the seat beside him. He had promised Aziraphale to never use it on himself. Had promised never to leave him alone again.

Images filled his mind’s eye; of beaming smiles and gentle hands. _Let me help you, darling. Please. _He shook them away. This was different. This was bigger than Death, than _them._ “Angel will hate me, but...”

One tiny step. That’s all it would take. End it before it even began. The Holy Water would finish the job and the world could breathe again.

And Aziraphale. Aziraphale would be _safe._

A wave of nausea rolled over him, clutching the basket tighter to his chest without even realizing it. The Antichrist gurgled, he could not look at him. At the too human eyes, wide and innocent. At the fragile body that would one day annihilate them all.

They would come for him soon. The longer he sat, the more danger he was in. Already they would realize the baby was not where he should be, the American diplomat’s wife holding her own son flush to her chest. A normal, human boy, who would be killed with the rest of them in eleven short years.

“I never told Aziraphale the truth.” The Antichrist cooed in response. “Could never say it back. Big, bloody coward, huh. That’s me.” He choked out a laugh, desperately wishing he had the feather with him. One last piece of Aziraphale as he went to the Great Unknown.

“He knows, right? He… he _has_ to know.”

It was cold that long August night. And it was getting colder. His breath hung in the air, tiny cracks of ice appearing on his windshield.

A burning pain racing down his spine.

24 years he had waited for this chance. A million things to say, to demand answers, once and for all. Nights staked out in hospital rooms, by car crashes, and still Death said nothing. And now, here it was, at the beginning of the end. Would it be Death that would take him to whatever lay beyond Heaven and Hell? Or were the old rumours true-

There was nothing waiting for him after a douse of Holy Water.

“Ah, Death. My old friend.” Recklessness drove him, the Antichrist tucked away in the car, hidden out of sight. Death stood there, headlights falling on the folds of its robes, beauty in decay that beckoned some primal part of Crowley to reach out and touch. “It’s been far too long.”

The roar of the water was even more deafening outside, spray flecking across Crowley’s face and drenching his hair. For a moment they stood there, demon and reaper, precariously balanced on the razor’s edge. Death’s face shrouded in shadows, but Crowley could feel the fathomless eyes bore into his very soul.

_Continue your journey, demon Crowley._

Shuddering, this fiery frost that clawed down his throat and into his heart with every word Death spoke. His back screamed in agony, but he forced himself to stand, forced himself to stare into the dark hood where eyes watched his own. There was nothing to lose anymore.

“N-no,” he almost laughed, defiant in front of the being that had caused so much fear for so many decades. “No, don’t think I will. Not until we’ve had a little overdue chat.”

Pausing, as if he expected an answer. They had done this dance before, and Crowley knew too well goading it was futile. Perhaps Death would fade out of sight, let Ligur and Hastur finish him off.

But, Death did not move. It simply stared.

And waited.

“Ypres. 1984. You remember? Fucking with Aziraphale’s mind like that? See, I always thought you were above sadism, more my lot’s thing. I even used to respect you a little.”

There was no answer. Crowley’s bravado cracked, wavered. The world was slowing, the water trickling to a halt. Air unnaturally thick and heavy, and Crowley swallowed.

“You’ve been torturing us with that little _warning_ of yours for 24 goddamn years. Thing is though, you’re a bloody liar. No one ever came. No one’s ever found out. I mean,” he stepped forward, a stupid gesture, voice growing louder with every shudder of his heart, “what the fuck are you playing, at anyway? Lying to Hell and then pulling a stunt like that?”

_My words were truth. Now more than ever._

Crowley gasped, pinpricks of black appearing before his vision, body subsumed in a frozen lake once more. It did not do well to commune with Death too long; not even demons were beyond its power. Struggling to regain his footing; he had not expected an answer. He could not turn back now, not when Death at last seemed willing to talk.

“E-enough with the riddles! You’re as bad as bloody Aziraphale!”

A swell of emotions accompanied Aziraphale’s name. He so badly wanted him here, a pathetic longing, but there it was. He could picture Aziraphale’s devastation at feeling Crowley’s presence no longer, at finding the abandoned car and empty flask.

Could he really do that to Aziraphale? End it all without giving him a chance to help? Without facing it all down together, as they swore they always would?

Without telling him…

“Why are you here? Huh? To try and stop me?” His hand groped for the cool steel of his car, heart hammering in his ears. Death was getting closer, his knees hitting the bumper, shielding the basket as best he could. “All I gotta do is take one little step and that’s that. You gotta take the kid and it’s over! Better luck next time!”

_Do I?_

Ice filled Crowley’s veins, an entirely different panic strangling him. Defiance there, hidden in that soft voice, puncturing him a thousand times over. It couldn’t be. Death had rules, had always followed them. You wear human skin, you were its to take. Demon. Angel. Antichrist…

“You can’t want this…” his voice shook, did not bother trying to pretend it didn’t. “I know… I know you’re one of the damn Horsemen but you _can’t_ want this to end! You’ll have-you’ll have no purpose! They’ll all be dead!”

How the mighty had fallen. Begging Death, as humans always did during their last precious moments. Was this how Aziraphale had felt, small and alone, as mustard gas had filled his lungs? Had he begged Death for mercy, too?

A glimpse of pearly bone and bottomless eyes, unchanged in all their thousands of years. Death was reaching out to him, that chill sinking down to Crowley’s very soul. “You b-broke the r-rules for Aziraphale… and-and me… you… you…“ He tried to raise his hands, to snap away, to call Aziraphale. Frozen in place, the world was fading.

“D-don’t-“

Darkness swallowed him whole. An endless ocean, dragging him beneath its cruel waves. Cold, cold, freezing him from inside out, leeching his life away. He could not see. He could not breathe. Twisted and pulled and overcome.

_The path you seek is narrow. And it shall strip you bare._

He was flayed. Every limb held taut, a thousand chains. Aziraphale was crying out for him, begging him to come back. But, there was no Crowley. There was only fear, a gaping void that was all-consuming.

_But, there is triumph in destruction. Rebirth in annihilation. _

Aziraphale was laughing now, warm and filled with joy. Something struggled in the darkness, shards of light, aching to reach out. Skeletal hands cupped his chin, a frigid breath that sucked him dry.

_One chance, demon Crowley. Heed my words. There are faces hiding in plain sight. There are enemies that can give you time._

_Heed my words, demon Crowley. _

_And you shall have your victory._

= = =

The ground was wet against his cheek.

He inhaled sharply, feeling the spray from the river once more against his skin. The Bentley purred behind him, lights illuminating the still forest ahead. Limbs quaking, hands clutching at the solid ground beneath him. Death was gone, but the chill remained, icy fingers squeezing his heart.

His back was seized up; an agonizing, fiery pain that made clambering into his car difficult. The Antichrist was red-cheeked and whimpering, chubby arms wildly reaching towards Crowley’s scarf. 

He knelt his forehead against the steering wheel, deep, shuddering breaths, as if to check he was really here. Death had taken him somewhere, just like in Ypres, somewhere no other demon had ever come back from.

Crowley was sure that a third trip would be permanent.

_Where_ it had taken him he did not know. He could still hear the faint echoes of Aziraphale’s laughter, the frigid words seared into his mind. “You’re a right bastard, you know that?”

There was no answer. Only the faint hum of the engine, and the tiny cries for Crowley’s attention.

He turned to his new Master, who would soon demand Crowley’s unfailing loyalty, demand he turn his back on the world. Raising his hand over his little chest, swallowing at the wide eyes that stared hopefully up at him.

“Can’t let you do it,” he whispered, eyes burning despite himself. His sunglasses were gone, he could feel the sheer power that lay in that innocent gaze. “They don’t deserve it. Damning them is one thing, but you’re going to destroy them and-“

He thought of Aziraphale. Thought of the impossible that had bloomed between them these last 60 years. He thought of Armstrong, and Da Vinci, and even that old sop Shakespeare. The little old lady who lived down the hall. The mischievous boy he had watched turn into a shady lawyer.

All of them. All of them.

Gone.

A tiny fist curled around one of his fingers. The gaze was somber, eyes that seemed to know far too much. There was darkness here, impossible to miss, and Crowley was compelled to bow his head.

“Not gonna let you do it. Especially… especially not to Aziraphale.”

A great swell of emotion encompassed him, those millions of stars shining from deep within. The fist tightened around his finger, and Crowley squeezed his eyes shut.

A weight settled into his pocket, a phone that was in perfect working order once more. The world seemed to shudder, slip back into place, and the numbers on the clock flipped to the new hour.

9:00 p.m.

_One chance, demon Crowley._

_One chance._

= = =

Aziraphale’s glass was full.

Stifling in this tiny room, shuttered away from the chaos of a London night. The white feather was in Crowley’s lap, spindly fingers tracing the soft edges, vestiges of holiness irritating his skin. A weaker being would bring the feather to his lips, let tears fall unabashed.

Crowley was not weak.

He wasn’t.

Aziraphale was still. So very, very still. Eyes locked into some distant corner of the universe. Crowley had expected anxious pacing. Drowning himself in drink. A titter of nervous laughter. _Something_.

Crowley downed his own drink, a cheaply made beer that did not deserve its expensive price. He could not bring himself to open up his prized collection of spirits, even as time slid away. There was time to drink them, when all this was fixed, when they could toast to thwarting Heaven and Hell at last.

“Look. Look, I have a plan.”

At long last, Aziraphale creaked to life. Gazing up at him from Crowley’s elaborate throne, a more modest replica of the one he showed the world. A smile, barely there, but it made Crowley’s heart swoop with false hope all the same.

“I know, darling. You always have a plan.”

He swung himself off the desk, careful not to disturb the old projector, the feather returning to its silk cushion. He needed to move, limbs threatening to splinter if they were held still for one moment longer. Aziraphale’s eyes watched him, the flask of Holy Water clutched tightly to his chest.

“I’m expected to influence him. They were pretty fucking explicit about that. Imbue him with evil tendencies, make him hate the world, the usual bullshit.” He teetered for a moment, grabbed a cigarette from the ether, neglected to light it.

“…I have to do it.”

Aziraphale’s eyes fluttered shut, a long, deep inhale. “Of course. He’ll need to get Hell’s influence from somewhere. It’s better coming from you than your… colleagues.”

“Exactly! Exactly my point!” The flicker of hope sparked once more, despite his best intention. A bottle of beer in his hand that certainly wasn’t there before, and he gulped down as much as he could. “There’s darkness in him, a lot of it, but it’s not enough. He’s _human _more than anything! Especially now. Just a kid. And what are humans best at?”

A pause, as Aziraphale’s eyes searched his own. He silently begged for Aziraphale to understand, to see his logic, see that they could do the impossible and stop this whole thing. “They’re rather good at thwarting our influence.”

“Yes!” The cigarette snapped in half, faded into dust. He crowded over Aziraphale, felt the warmth wash over him, chasing the remnants of Death away. “They can _choose_ to follow us or not! The one good thing _She_ did.”

Aziraphale’s face wavered, stoicism giving way to something delicate and desperate. “You mean… you’ll show him all the good of the world? Counteract the evil?” A hand crept up to his chest, something heavy laced in those words, something Crowley could not swallow. He shoved such thoughts away. This was no time to let Hell win.

“Not me, angel. _You_.”

“_Me_?” He chewed his lip, traced little shapes over Crowley’s ribs. He could see the desire, the broken longing to embrace Crowley’s words. “Crowley… my last… _task_ as it were, is to guide as many human souls to the Light as possible. Focusing solely on the Antichrist could invite scrutiny we cannot possibly afford.”

They were eye level now, Crowley’s knees sticking out at odd angles. Gold dusted cheeks and long curly hair, a sight he had taken pains to memorize with each dawn tangled in each other’s arms. Deflated, as he always was after a visit from Above, that bright flame that drew Crowley near smothered and hidden away.

He brushed a thumb over plump lips, felt them open without protest beneath him. “Think about it, Aziraphale. An angel, smack in the middle of London, with all this damn knowledge in his collection, and a whole damn business that humans come to everyday. Perfect base to influence them all without having to leave your front door.”

Aziraphale did not reply, still staring at him with rapt attention. Trust there, unblemished trust, and Crowley could not help but let his hand cover his pulse. A heartbeat under his fingers, strong and steady, his, all his.

“We could get started now. Right_ now_.” Voice filled with brazen hope, the reckless delight of a plan coming together. “You could become a tutor. Kids, adults, teenagers, whatever. Spread good and morality and all that fucking rubbish.

“And maybe there’s a boy. Brought there by his nanny.” His other hand came up, cupped Aziraphale’s head, silk curls sliding over his knuckles. “He’s bloody terrible in history and literature. Teachers seem to hate him, always give him bad marks. He needs lots of attention. _Years_ of attention.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, lips falling open with realization. He could see it, _he could see it_. Crowley’s heart quickened in tandem with the pulse under his palm, fingers tightening in his hair. “It wouldn’t be as though I was focusing only on him. Heaven couldn’t-couldn’t possibly object to sowing seeds of goodness in the Antichrist… along with all the other humans… that’s not interfering with their Plan…”

“Exactly, angel. Isn’t their _grand plan_ to win? And what better way to win against Hell than corrupt the Antichrist?”

The world was unfurling before them, a path surging ahead, and they could take it, they could claim their victory…

Except.

Except the light in Aziraphale’s eyes dulled.

And his smile began to fade.

“But, they know you, Crowley.” He let out a sharp breath, it trembled in the air. “Michael mentioned your name specifically when she came tonight. And Hell… well, Hell certainly knows me.” Crowley swallowed; he knew all too well. “It is one thing to try to lead the Antichrist to good, quite another to let my supposed enemy around the very people I’m to be saving for years.”

He gave a strained smile, pierced Crowley’s heart in two. “They’ll expect violence, darling. They both will.”

Crowley slid down, down, down, unspooled as their glorious path was abruptly shut. They _would_ expect violence, at such a critical moment as this, both sides girding for their final triumph. He collapsed in a heap, head resting on Aziraphale’s knees. A hand in his hair, steady strokes from quivering hands, and he clenched his teeth together.

They would be watching closely, more closely than any moment before. He remembered the hunger in Ligur’s eyes as the basket was handed over, the unspoken warning that he better carry out every order his Master demanded.

Ligur was not Hastur. He would see the brimming feelings between them, feel that forbidden word that strung two hearts impossibly together. They could not keep up the act, not for years and years, not when they were watching every move, every breath…

_There are enemies that can give you time._

“Wait. _Wait_.”

Death rarely spoke. He could count the number of words it had uttered over thousands of years. And yet, tonight, of all nights, it had come. Had taken Crowley away, had cupped his very essence in its hands and whispered frigid words in his ears.

And it had never lead them astray. Never.

He launched to his feet, pacing round and round, and Aziraphale nearly joined him, half out of his seat, eyes not quite daring to hope.

“We don’t hide.”

“_What?!_” Aziraphale was fully on his feet now, very nearly dropping the deadly thermos. “Crowley have you quite lost your mind? You know what they’ll do to us if they find out!”

“Yesterday yes! But, not today. Not tomorrow.” Hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, jittery nerves jolting in his gut, in his heart, but he knew this was it, he knew this was the answer. “You were right about Death’s warning, angel. Satan, you’re always right, I just didn’t see it!”

A strange look flitted across Aziraphale’s face, and he tucked the Holy Water out of sight. A long, quiet exhale, words spoken softly, far too softly. “Did you see Death tonight, Crowley?”

Had it been yesterday, had it been a few short hours ago, Crowley would have noticed. Dangerous ground he was treading on, a flicker of righteousness in Aziraphale’s expression.

Instead, he plowed on further, excitement colouring his voice. This was the answer, it _was!_ “Yeah, yeah, it came and spoke to me. It all makes sense now, angel, don’t you see? It said we can’t hide forever. You said Armageddon would force us out into the open. And what if we did?”

Silence. It mattered not. Crowley was lost, a bundle of hands and legs that could not keep still, could not contain at last finally cracking the code.

“They want victory at all costs. No, not just that, they want to _crush_ each other. Completely. And we could use that! Use their own bloody arrogance against them!” He was grinning now, manic, every nerve alight. “And what’s the biggest fuck you to the other side? Winning one of their own! We’re tempting each other, trying to win the crown jewel, it’s perfect, it’s _perfect!_

“It would explain everything to them. Why we’re hanging around each other, why we seem to l-like each other.” The truth burned on his tongue, an acid he could not swallow. “And for you it’s even better, a real two-for one. Antichrist and demon, just imagine the look on that- Michael’s face.”

Finally, he looked at Aziraphale, standing there, rubbing the spot on his chest where the feather lay hidden out of sight. He wobbled on the edge of something, chewing his lips, every word spoken slowly, carefully. “If we misinterpret this-“

He could not bear to say the rest.

He gathered Aziraphale’s hands in his own, pulled them as close as could be. Their hearts beat in harmony, as was so often the case these years. “You said yourself they would find out eventually.”

Aziraphale swallowed visibly, but his gaze never wavered. “I know. And I know we have been bracing ourselves ever since, but this could go terribly wrong terribly quickly, my love. Are you… are you _absolutely _sure?”

He hesitated. A moment. A second. This was a gamble, a gamble they could never come back from.

_One chance_.

“Death said, ‘there are enemies that can give you time’. And that if we get this right… we’d be victorious.”

“Over what?” A whisper, a hush, here in this room, stuffed full of all their memories.

“Dunno, angel. The Apocalypse? _Them_? What other enemies do we have.” Phantom chills pricked his skin, ghostly laughter rang in his ears. Death was helping them, that much was clear. Crowley still did not understand why, wasn’t sure he would like the answer.

But, there was no time to dwell. Not anymore.

A deep, steadying breath. He did not want to speak these words, did not want to sign his soul away. Aziraphale’s very existence rested in his grasp. One mistake, one mistake…

“I’m sure about this, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale closed his eyes. Gripped his hands ever tighter. “Alright then. I trust you.”

The weight of those words settled over Crowley, stitched into his skin. _Don’t let me be wrong about this. Please don’t let me be wrong about this._

Foreheads pressed together, Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s delicate lashes sweep his cheek. A moment, where they simply existed. Eleven years. Their lives together had barely begun. Barely scratched the surface of all that they were, all that they could be.

God was cruel. But, Crowley had never let that stand in his way before.

“I felt time shift tonight, you know,” Aziraphale breathed.

Ice slid down Crowley’s windpipe.

Aziraphale pulled away, cold rushing in to claim the empty space. A thermos in his hand, a face stretched taut with worry and betrayal. “There was nothing foolishly considered with this, was there Crowley?”

The guilt that had been lurking in the corners of his heart swelled, cascaded over him. He could not lie, not tonight, not when there were so few opportunities left to atone for his sins. He crossed his arms, crossed them tight, very much wishing his eyes were not uncovered. “Nothing happened. ‘m here, aren’t I.”

How could he explain the fear that gripped him? The desire to keep Aziraphale safe, no matter the cost? How wrong it was, to stare at such an innocent face, but feel the malice that tugged at his instincts and know, know that it was only Crowley in that moment who could stop it all before it even began.

Aziraphale’s expression softened, the guilt slammed into him harder. “I was frightened myself. I still am, and I know you are too.”

Crowley averted his gaze, it was hard, even now, to be so utterly exposed. “I’m not scared.” Aziraphale’s eyebrow raised, Crowley clenched his teeth in response. “I thought if I killed the kid… Death would take him. Course Hell wouldn’t like that so…. I had my insurance…”

“Crowley…”

“I didn’t _want_ to do that to you, but-“

“But, you felt you had no choice.” He exhaled, long, and slow, filled with a heaviness Crowley wished he could fix. “If I’m honest, I cannot say I wouldn’t have done the exact same thing. Have done the same thing, haven’t I…”

Crowley remembered. The fire, the screams, the anguish at realizing Aziraphale was nowhere to be found. Millennia ago and he still couldn’t stand to dwell on those wretched memories, still fresh, still jagged.

Aziraphale closed the gap, eyes locked onto his own. Even now, with panic suffocating them both, he could not help but be mesmerized. Beautiful, he was always so beautiful. Courageous, even when the odds were stacked against them.

“There is nothing more important than you.” He took Crowley’s hands, so gently, so carefully, curling his fingers around the thermos, and Crowley could only watch in astonishment. This thing, this damned thing that had caused so much strife, and here Aziraphale was, placing it in his hands after…

“Angel-“

“Crowley, I love you. And I understand why you nearly did what you did tonight.” He leaned closer, brushed their noses together. Hand over hand, skin on skin, as the thermos pulsed with holiness between them. “But, if we go, we go together.”

Crowley’s throat burned, bright and hot. Hard to swallow, hard to blink back the wetness in his eyes. He tucked the thermos out of sight, cradled Aziraphale’s face in his hands. Eight years and he had never been able to say it, but now was the time, now was the moment.

“Aziraphale you… you know it’s…” His instincts screamed and raged, but he would not let them win, not this time. “It’s the… same… it’s… I feel… always, from the beginning… you have to-“

Soft lips covered his own, swallowing those feeble words. He pushed his confession into the kiss, drank the absolution and forgiveness Aziraphale so freely offered.

“It’s alright, darling. I know.”

“I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, a huge apology for how long it's been since the last update. Life got busy for me in a way I didn't expect, and unfortunately shows no signs of slowing down. I've rejigged my outline to have more bite-sized chapters like this one, which will make it easier for me to update more regularly. Thank you so much to everyone for your patience, and the people who have commented and messaged me lately especially; you all really helped light the fire under my ass to get this done.
> 
> Thank you so much as always to everyone who commented, gave kudos, bookmarked and subscribed. I know it's been awhile, but your comments and support mean the world to me, and why I plan on finishing this story no matter what. As promised, the first chapter of the collection of missing scenes has been posted, so if that sounds interesting to you, you can find it as the next work listed!


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